The Wrong Mr. Right (The Queen's Cove Series #2)(103)

When he asked me to come with him, Wyatt had tossed his shield aside.

My heart raced as I pictured quick flashes of our future together. Holding hands on a plane. Floating in the water on our surfboards, enjoying the sunrise.

The nurse at the ER thought you were my pregnant wife.

Sitting on the beach in the sand, keeping a careful eye on our kids.

I had it and I dropped it.

I wanted her to be proud of me. That was what started this whole thing, wanting her to be proud of the person I had turned into, and instead, I had made a huge mess of everything. I was worrying about making the wrong person proud.

I should have been making myself proud the entire time.

Wyatt’s lazy, amused grin appeared in my head. The soft affection on his face when I woke up the other day. The way his fingers always found their way to my hair. The way he grinned ear to ear when I stood up on my surfboard. The look of adoration as I belted out the Spice Girls in my terrible singing voice. His calm, satisfied way of floating on his board after a surf lesson, staring up at the sky.

In my mind, I was back in the bookstore, sitting on the window bench with Wyatt, surrounded by our friends. Surrounded by my beautiful new bookstore. I had thought it was meant to be, me in that bookstore, but the meant to be part was Wyatt beside me.

I had it all wrong. Everything I thought I knew was simply wrong. I was looking for what was right in front of me, like when I searched for my glasses and they were in my hand the entire time. My mom wanted me to be happy, and I had interpreted that in my own way and taken it way, way too far, like my dad had taken keeping her memory alive too far.

It settled in my gut like a rock.

You were my practice guy.

Asshole, I thought as I put my face in my hands. I wasn’t Elizabeth Bennett. I was Wickham, the backstabbing, two-timing liar who hurt and embarrassed Lizzie. I dragged Wyatt along, ignored everything that was happening—no, worse, I denied everything that was happening. I told Wyatt it wasn’t real. I was the villain the whole time.

It was real, though. I was in love with Wyatt, and because I was too scared of getting hurt, I lied to him and hurt him instead. I chose my own heart over his.

Asshole.

I swallowed thickly. I knew what I had to do. I didn’t know if any of it would work, but I couldn’t leave everything like this, all broken and misaligned.

Bravery, I reminded myself.

My chair scraped when I stood quickly. “I have to go.”

I was going to go get Wyatt Rhodes back.





33





Wyatt





My truck crunched up the gravel drive of my aunt’s place on Mayne Island just before lunch. Trees loomed over the small rancher. A tiny Yorkie dog ran out to greet me.

“Well, look who it is.” Aunt Bea leaned against the doorframe with a cocky smile, salt and pepper hair tied up in a ponytail. She looked like my mom.

I waved. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

She shrugged me off and stepped forward with her arms out. She wrapped me in a tight hug. “Hi, honey.”

“Hey, Auntie Bea.”

Half an hour later, we sat in the sunroom at the back of the house with sandwiches while her dog, Cooper, watched for crumbs dropped on the floor. My aunt tilted her chin at me. “Out with it.”

My gaze cut to hers and I lifted my eyebrows in question.

“As thrilled as I am to see my favorite nephew, I know you didn’t drive three hours and take a ferry to come for lunch.” Her mouth quirked.

I nodded and put my sandwich down. Deep breath, in and out. Courage. All that good stuff I tried to teach Hannah. “I wanted to talk to you about Aunt Rebecca.”

She smiled. “Mhm.”

Another deep breath. I chose my words carefully. “If you had known about her illness…” My words broke off.

“Would I have still married her?”

I nodded.

“I did know about it. She told me when we first started dating that there was a history of early onset Alzheimer’s in her family. Her mom had it, her grandfather had it, and she knew she might have it as well.”

“And it didn’t bother you?”

She scoffed. “Of course it bothered me. I thought about it every day. Every time she forgot something at the grocery store or couldn’t remember some celebrity’s name, I thought it was starting.” She made a noise of regret in her throat. “I let it weigh me down for years.”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at my sandwich.

Auntie Bea sighed and leaned her chin on her palm. “I thought that by telling myself, here we go, she’s starting to forget you, I could manage my own expectations. If I reminded myself constantly about her illness, it wouldn’t be a surprise when it happened. It wouldn’t hurt so much.” Her gaze dimmed and she blinked at her mug, eyebrows pinching together.

“And then it started happening for real. She forgot how to put toothpaste on a toothbrush one morning. She forgot my name for ten minutes and laughed it off while I hid in the bathroom and cried into a hand towel. She forgot her own name. She became someone different and even though I had been preparing myself for it, it ripped my fucking heart out.”

I glanced up at her and she shot me a rueful, twisted smile.

“And instead of figuring it out then, I was so deep in fear and confusion that I started preparing myself for the next stage. I held myself back from enjoying things too much with her when she was lucid because I knew it was temporary.”