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  How good he’d made her feel, better than she’d ever felt in her life, and the way he’d hurt her. The way they’d dressed, packed up, and driven home in silence. How hard she’d cried, and for how long.

  Jake.

  His eyes caught hers, caught and held and held and held. Sam’s gray-blue eyes, Sam’s full lower lip, Sam’s absurdly long eyelashes. Jake’s face.

  Would Sam someday have a jaw like that, square and strong? Would his nose, which was still a little boy’s pudgy upturned nose, be as bladelike as his father’s?

  How many times had she promised herself that if this moment ever came, she wouldn’t hold the truth back from Jake?

  But she’d never pictured it happening in a setting like this. Public. Awkward.

  “Mira.” He said it slowly, as if he were pulling the name from the furthest reaches of his memory.

  “Hi, Jake.”

  Her voice was splintered, thready. There was no pretending this was a no-big-deal moment. Not for her. And he wasn’t trying to play it cool either. He scrutinized her, jaw set, expression serious. There was grief in every line of his face. Something she thought might be anger. A darkness behind the surface of his eyes that she’d seen only once before, that night by the lake, when she’d asked him for a future he couldn’t give.

  She was feeling too much, and she couldn’t put it all together. When he’d been a stranger with a prosthetic leg, she could manage the sympathy, the curiosity, the faint survivor’s guilt. But he was her Jake, a man she’d been intimate with, and he’d lost part of the body she’d worshipped. He was her Jake, and he was here, in this room, and she was so glad to see him, so glad she wanted to hurl herself at him, but also terrified, because what was she supposed to do or say now?

  She had promised herself she’d tell him.

  But he had never really been her Jake, had he? And now—

  Now he really was a stranger. Even if her body was trying to tell her he wasn’t. Insisting it hadn’t forgotten the scent or the heat or the weight of him, hadn’t forgotten what he could do with his hungry mouth and skilled fingers.

  She wasn’t eighteen. She wasn’t free to indulge herself, to throw herself open like a book. She had Sam to think about.

  “You look good,” she said, because the silence was spreading and someone had to say something.

  For a fraction of a second—she might have missed it if she hadn’t been so hyperalert—he looked down at his leg. Then back up at her face, his eyes empty.

  He didn’t say it back. You look good, too, Mira. She hated herself for wishing he had.

  She had no idea what to say next. How to make small talk with a man who was all the things he was to her: a summer fling gone wrong, the hottest not-sex she’d ever had, the father of her child. How to make small talk with someone who so obviously wanted nothing to do with her.

  “You look like you’re doing great.”

  The look in his eyes, pure scorn, told her how absurd he thought that was. “I do all right.”

  Every word she said that was not I have a son, and he’s your son, too felt like a lie. Like postponing the inevitable. But could she just . . . do it? In the waiting room of the physical therapist’s office? They were the only two people here, but surely there was a better time and place. Someplace quiet, someplace private, someplace . . . intimate.

  But how would she get him alone like that? How would she explain why she needed to?

  So many times, she had imagined a chance meeting, this opportunity to finally say, Jake, I have something to tell you. You might want to sit down.

  Well, here he was. Sitting.

  “That’s my son,” she said, pointing through the window. “Sam.”

  Her heart pounded so hard she thought she’d be sick.

  She waited for a flicker of recognition, something to indicate he’d made the connection, but there was nothing. Only his blank, grim expression. Was he still in there somewhere, behind that mask? Was it the loss of his leg that had made him like this, or what he’d seen in the war? She’d read somewhere that the army was requiring longer and longer commitments from soldiers, pushing them to the outside limit of what they could endure, physically and mentally. Who knew how damaged he was?

  Who knew if he was someone she would choose to let her child spend time with, let alone love?

  “Could I—could we—get coffee?”

  Maybe if she sat down with him, if they could talk, if she could find out who he was and where he’d been.

  “What?” he asked. “Chat and catch up?”

  “Yes. Chat and catch up.”

  “I fill you in on what it’s like to be down a limb?”

  He was angry. Not at her, or at least not at her for any good reason. At his fate, at the world. And she couldn’t blame him for that. She couldn’t imagine—couldn’t fathom—what it would be like to have to relearn everything, to start from scratch with walking and balance and all the things she took for granted.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m not much for coffee talk these days.”

  “Ms. Shipley?” The physical therapist, Joanne, had poked her head into the waiting room. “I want to go over Sam’s homework with you.”

  Okay, what did she do now? Walk away? Despite his curtness, she couldn’t imagine turning her back on him and writing him off. Sam’s father.

  If she walked away now, if she let him walk away now, she’d have no way to get in touch with him. It would be as good as if they’d never had this chance meeting.

  Was that what she wanted?

  She’d promised herself. If I ever see him again, I will tell him he’s Sam’s father.

  “Sure. Can you hang on a second?” she asked Joanne. “I’ll be right there.”

  “No problem. I’ll show Sam one more thing on the ball while we wait for you.” Joanne disappeared again.

  “Just—please,” she said to Jake. “Coffee, a drink—I don’t care. I’d just like us to get a chance to talk.”

  “Do we have something to talk about?”

  His words found their way into her old, half-healed hurt. The part of her that had tried for months—years—to understand how she could have been so wrong about what he felt for her.

  But there was no room for pride now, no room to care if he thought she was desperate or throwing herself at him, hoping for a reprise of the good old times. She just didn’t want to lose this thread, this chance. She would not let her cowardice cheat Sam out of the chance to have a father in his life.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have to tell you something I think you’ll want to hear.”

  Nothing. No curiosity, no glimmer of the old Jake. It was like he wasn’t in there at all.

  “Jake?” The receptionist had poked her head into the waiting area. “Linda says you can head back there as soon as you’re ready, and she’ll be with you in two.”

  Jake used the arms of his chair to pull himself to his feet and shook his head at Mira. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  He crossed the room, then paused and turned back. “Nice to see you, Mira.”

  “Wait. Wait.” Her heart pounded like crazy.

  He hesitated.

  Half a room separated them. She crossed the space and stood next to him. “Sam. He’s seven.” Her voice had slid to a whisper.

  “Good age,” Jake said.

  Was he being deliberately dense? Subtlety wasn’t going to do it; she’d have to blurt it out. After all these years, it was no easier to say the words. Her heart beat hard, her stomach clenched tight, her hands and feet were numb. When she opened her mouth, she didn’t say what she’d meant to say.

  “I should have called or written right away, once I knew, but they said—everyone said—that I should wait. Till you were home on leave.”

  Something moved behind his eyes, just enough of a shift that she was sure he heard the urgency in her voice.

  They—mainly her friend Polly, who had a brother in the army—had said it would be dang
erous to give the news of her pregnancy when he was deployed. That he’d lose his focus and get himself killed.

  “And you’d said you’d be home for leave in six months, so I waited, and then I called. Did you get my texts and messages?”

  He shook his head. Slowly, his eyes wary.

  “I didn’t know how to find you, other than the cell number. I tried to find your parents, but—”

  “Their number was unlisted.”

  “I kept thinking you’d get in touch. That you’d see the texts and messages, and then you didn’t, and then—I wanted to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Sam’s yours.”

  If she’d expected a reaction, if she’d expected drama, she would have been thoroughly disappointed. His jaw might have tightened a notch, but otherwise, she couldn’t see any evidence that he was moved by her revelation. Her life might have been remade from scratch, but she could have told him there was a donut shop opening in town, for all the emotion he’d showed.

  Just when she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to say anything at all, he said, “We didn’t have sex.”

  Oh, fuck you, dude.

  In all her fantasies about what it would be like to tell Jake that he had a son, he had never denied responsibility. It had never crossed her mind that he would deny responsibility. She guessed that made her ridiculously naive.

  “We did have sex.” The word “sex” sounded particularly loud in the empty waiting room. Mira looked over at the receptionist, but she was making calls with a headset on. “Just because it was bad sex doesn’t mean it wasn’t sex.”

  That got more reaction from him than the news that Sam was his son. She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. Just telling it like it is, baby denier.

  “I wore a condom.”

  “You put it on too late. I was shocked, too, believe me. My OB said the odds are low, but it definitely happens. Look. I’m telling you Sam’s yours because I thought you might want to know. I thought you might want to know that there was a person walking around on this earth with half your DNA, doing stuff he probably inherited from you. For all I know he got all the asthma and allergies from your side of the family, because he sure as hell didn’t get them from mine. But whatever. We don’t need anything from you. We’ve done perfectly fine without you up to this point. I didn’t tell you so you could argue with me about whether he’s really yours.”

  No reaction, other than a few blinks and a swallow. As if they weren’t fighting about a child. What was wrong with him?

  “If you guys are doing so fine, what was that phone call a few minutes ago all about?”

  She shut her eyes. Seriously? He was going to refuse to admit Sam was his son but then get all up in her business about her life? She took a deep breath. He was damaged. Something had happened to him. He needed her—her sympathy. Her patience. “I have some childcare issues.”

  “Some,” he repeated. “Your babysitter bailed on you.”

  “What are you doing, volunteering?”

  She wasn’t sure where the snark had come from.

  “You wouldn’t really want that, now, would you? Near stranger, gimpy leg? Not exactly the best raw babysitting material.”

  “You forgot grumpy asshole,” she said.

  Again, a flicker of something behind his eyes. “I was about to get to that,” he said.

  “You know what? Forget it.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an old credit-card receipt and scribbled her cell number on it. “If you change your mind about getting to know Sam . . .”

  She held it out. He hesitated a moment, then took it.

  She felt Jake watching as she walked away.

  For more of Mira, Jake, and Sam’s story, grab your copy of Hold On Tight!

  * * *

  Find HOLD ON TIGHT here.

  * * *

  And when you finish that, you’ll love the rest of the Returning Home series—four make-you-laugh, make-you-cry stories about finding love after fighting for your country.

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  Find my newsletter list here.

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  Turn the page to find all my available titles!

  Also by Serena Bell

  Returning Home

  Hold On Tight

  Can’t Hold Back

  To Have and to Hold

  Holding Out

  * * *

  Sexy Single Dads

  Do Over

  Head Over Heels

  Sleepover

  * * *

  New York Glitz

  Still So Hot!

  Hot & Bothered

  * * *

  Seattle Grizzlies

  Getting Inside

  Acknowledgments

  Happy New Year! (Even if it’s not January 1st. Because every day is a chance to start fresh.) I love you, my readers. Everything I do, I do for you, and I’m so pleased to once again be able to put this story, which is one of my favorites, in your hands.

  This re-release was made possible by the awesomeness of my writerly support network, including but definitely not limited to Christine D’Abo and Rachel Grant.

  Also, my writing career is possible because of the steadfast support of my famblee, Mr. Bell and the two not-so-little-anymore Bells.

  I also want to acknowledge Lisa Renée Jones and Mary Ann Rivers whose stories—Play With Me (Thanksgiving) and Snowfall (Christmas)—were originally published alongside this one in the anthology Heating Up the Holidays. They were great partners in crime! I’m (still) grateful to my original beta readers Ruthie Knox, Ellen Price, the aforementioned Mary Ann Rivers, and Mr. Bell, and to my expert on matters of the law, Chrissy Hanisco. And so many thanks to Emily Sylvan Kim, my agent: for pushing me to take a chance and say yes, and for believing in New Year’s Eve and me. This book was originally edited for publication by Sue Grimshaw, to whom I am indebted for her suggestions.

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Serena Bell writes contemporary romance with heat, heart, and humor. A former journalist, Serena has always believed that everyone has an amazing story to tell if you listen carefully, and you can often find her scribbling in her tiny garret office, mainlining chocolate and bringing to life the tales in her head.

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  Serena’s books have earned many honors, including a RITA finalist spot, an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, Apple Books Best Book of the Month, and Amazon Best Book of the Year for Romance.

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  When not writing, Serena loves to spend time with her college-sweetheart husband and two hilarious kiddos—all of whom are incredibly tolerant not just of Serena’s imaginary friends but also of how often she changes her hobbies and how passionately she embraces the new ones. These days, it’s stand-up paddle boarding, board-gaming, meditation, and long walks with good friends.

  Copyright © 2019 by Serena Bell

  All rights reserved.

  Jelsba Media Group

  ISBN 978-1-7328948-5-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Glass slipper icon made by Freepik from www.flaticon.com and licensed by CC BY 3.0.

 

 

 
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