A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(56)

“Because you go to work in a tie? Because you use words on the phone like, ‘series B valuation’?”

He turns his head on the pillow and smiles at me. And I feel instantly warm inside. “That’s all true, but I was thinking about my stamina.”

“Hey—no issues there.” I’m sore in some places that I’d forgotten could be sore.

“Mmm.” He shifts his legs under the covers. “But these days my bad knee aches the morning after a workout.”

“By ‘workout,’ do you mean hoisting me up to Block’s window?” I ask. “Or do you mean the time you spent on your hands and knees while we were…” I clear my throat.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “Both. Although I have no regrets.”

“That’s a relief.” I reach under the covers and slide my hand down his muscular thigh, feeling the hair crackle under my palm.

“A little to the left,” he says huskily.

“I’m not looking for your joystick. I’m trying to rub your knee.”

“Well, fine. I’ll take it,” he says, bending his knee to make this easier.

I’d already noticed the surgical scar, and I rub my thumb across it before digging gently into the muscle above his kneecap with my fingertips.

He makes an appreciative noise.

“Was it terrible?” I ask. “When you got hurt?”

“The tear was pretty awful, but the surgery wasn’t so bad.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I mean when you had to give up ski racing.”

“Oh.” He reaches over and palms my thigh. “Yes and no. I had already applied to business school, because I sensed I wasn’t on the cusp of a world cup breakout career. I needed a backup plan.”

“That’s smart. It must have helped cushion the blow.”

“Probably. But Ava, I was already so numb by then. It was just another loss. I hadn’t done a great job processing the first two, so losing skiing just seemed like one more thing. I was dropping pieces of myself all over the place, and not dealing with any of them. But you need to know…” He moves his hand up until his palm rests directly on my bare belly. “I regret making you feel, even for one moment, that I was relieved to lose our child.”

The sensation of his warm palm against my stomach makes me go still. I cover his hand with mine.

Then I remember to breathe.

Once upon a time, this was how we sat together. When I was pregnant, we spent many hours like this—his hand poised right there, like he was touching both of us. I remember it now so clearly.

I guess I already knew he’d loved us both. I’d felt it then, and it wasn’t a lie. But after he left me, I’d been so devastated.

It wasn’t right for him to let me go, and it broke me. But he’d been broken already, and he wasn’t able to put into words how badly he was hurting.

I get that now.

“Do you ever wonder,” Reed whispers, “whether it was a boy or a girl?”

“Just all the time,” I admit.

He kisses the side of my face, and I let myself relax. His hand remains a warm weight on my belly. He doesn’t let go.

Our silence is eventually interrupted by the phone ringing again. “Do you have to get that?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “My boss is having a freakout about some paperwork that didn’t come back. And I have to figure out if it’s a big deal or not.”

“That sounds thorny.”

“It’s probably nothing, but I need to deal.” He slides out of bed, and I feel immediately lonely. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be so viscerally aware of another person, and how I feel more alive when he walks into a room.

It’s not merely sexual. Although, when he emerges a minute later with his toothbrush, I lose a few IQ points from the spectacular view. “This breakfast with the Sharpes—I’m probably going to be late. It’s just as well, because I probably can’t fake my attitude with them,” he says before disappearing again.

“You can skip it. I’ll go.” I roll out of bed and shake off my hormone rush. “I’m planning to ask them all sorts of questions about the drive to Denver, and the restaurant they supposedly went to. I’m going to make them lie to my face.”

“You’re more patient than I am,” Reed grumbles through a mouth of toothpaste.

I’m not patient, but I do have an agenda. I’m awfully worried about how this will play out. “Can I have the first shower? I don’t want to roll up to breakfast looking like I just rolled out of bed with you.”

He smiles at me. “That’s a good look on you. But sure.”





Reed was right. It’s excruciating to sit across from the Sharpes while Trey lies about his evening.

“Denver is a real nice city. I’d love to see it in better weather. Slow going on the highway in the snow, but I got the job done.” He passes the keys across the table to me. “Would you see that your fella gets these, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? I want to grab him by the striped tie and choke him with it. “Sure,” I say through a tight jaw. “Will do.”

The worst part isn’t even the lying. Or the way I’ve been called “little girl” by the eldest Sharpe, “honey” by the middle one, and “sweetheart” by the youngest. The worst part is the way Mark is sitting there with a stoic expression on his face, calmly sipping his coffee as if we aren’t breakfasting with monsters.