Page 41 of In Every Chapter

To avoid destroying my last two unpicked fingernails, I kept my hands busy with a piece of embroidery—a quotation from Alexandre Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. “Until the day when God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words,—‘Wait and hope.’”

Easier said than done, my friend.

In the three days since I’d come home from the hospital, I’d learned a few things. Greyson wasn’t messy. Seriously, I saw the way he folded the corners of his sheets with forty-five-degree angular precision and the noticeable absence of socks on the floor when I peeked into his room. Either you could take the man out of the military but not the military out of the man . . . or Mama D definitely raised him right.

But I’d seen Cal’s place in Seattle when we were in college, and he was the furthest thing from tidy. So . . . military it was.

Greyson muttered something at the TV, leaning forward, arms on his knees. It was sweet how much he was invested in his brother’s success.

With Greyson distracted and Rosie snoozing on the rug, now was the perfect time to do some well overdue snooping. I could social media stalk. Discreetly.

But every search for Jared Nichols came up empty. Until one profile popped up, and there was no mistaking the face—it was him. And it hadn’t been updated in over six years.

Unease I couldn’t explain slithered down my spine. If my head thought I was married to him, why did my stomach stay otherwise?

I’m not a coward, Jared.

Maybe we weren’t as happy as I’d remembered. I tossed my phone down in frustration and resumed stabbing my embroidery project. So much for answers.

When the second period ended and eased into intermission, I set the hoop down and asked, “Can we talk?”

Greyson blinked at me and muted the TV. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“Yes but no. I mean, I have questions I’d like answers for. I can’t keep living on hold.” Apparently I wasn’t doing too well with this wait and hope business. But could you blame me when nearly a quarter of my life was missing?

He nodded slowly, then sipped his coffee. “Okay.”

Wow, man of few words. I propped my good elbow on the sofa arm and wiggled to face him. “I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re here. In Serenity Springs. Juliet told me she set us up because she thought I’d tame your wild side and be the only thing to make you put down roots.”

Greyson cleared his throat. “She was right.”

The words were oddly sweet with an undercurrent of . . . something. “I only know you as the lost, lone Satterfield brother. Why did you decide to stay?” My heart squeezed, and I mindlessly twisted the afghan tassel around my finger. “Was it my fault? Did I make you choose?”

“No. Nothing like that.” He shifted in his seat. “I was honourably discharged for medical reasons after we’d been dating for about a year and a half.”

“What happened?” I asked softly.

“It was a training mission gone wrong. There was an ambush. A misfire. I was airlifted to a hospital in Germany, and you flew out to see me. I asked you to marry my sorry hide, it was decided I leave the service, and the rest was history.”

This was the most words I’d heard him string together about the past, but also . . . it was history. My history. Our history. That I couldn’t remember. Ugh.

“And you gave up your life of adventure for . . . this?” I waved my hand around me vaguely. The muted TV screen, Rosie snoring at our feet, my arm in a sling with a collection of embroidery threads exploding over my lap.

“There’s nothing wrong with this from where I’m sitting, Pais.” His stormy eyes were so earnest I almost believed him. “I’m happy with where I landed. With you.”

He had a life of adventure and chose the most boring woman on the planet. How?

A flicker of something in his expression niggled me. He was a military man, good at hiding his feelings and thoughts. But I saw it, fleeting though it was. There was still something he wasn’t telling me.

But I wasn’t brave enough to press. Just picked up my needle and resumed stabbing the fabric in rhythmic strokes, the repetitive movements silencing my brain’s unending loop of thoughts.

Greyson’s scrutiny lingered for a few long moments, then he shifted and hit the unmute button, and commentary filled the quiet room.

“Did you see that last save? It was glorious!” Juliet effused over video chat when she called me the next morning. From the pride lacing her voice, you’d think she’d won the game herself.

“Go Chargers,” I teased, running a finger over the book spines on the shelves in my library. The Chargers had won the Calder Cup 3–2 in overtime, and the whole Satterfield clan was bursting their buttons at having two of their own fellas bring home the cup. It might have been their win, but it was all of ours, too.

She sighed heavily. “I’m so relieved it’s over. Playoffs are a beast. At least the baby is due in December.”