Ramsay (32 page)

"Jaysus, Courtney," I gritted out, shock and horror sliding down my spine.

"Some other terrible things, too." She paused. "She looked like I'd just killed her best friend. I was happy at the time," she said, looking off behind me. "I thought I'd won."

I exhaled a large breath, running my fingers through my hair. It's why she had left. That's. Why. She. Left.
Feck!
She’d thought I’d been lying to her about Courtney.
Cheating on her.

I spun away from Courtney, my mind reeling with the truths slowly dawning on me, what Lydia must have gone through that day . . . the doubt, the pain.

I'd found the printed proof that I owned her old family estate sitting on my counter, too. I'd known it had come from Stuart by the doodles at the bottom of the page.

So that day, so many doubts had been planted in her mind . . . she'd left, needing space and who could blame her? And then she'd gotten the call that I'd killed her brother. And suddenly, I knew beyond any doubt, that Lydia hadn't taken my folder. Stuart had.
How had he known? Because I had written all over the front in Gaelic.
He'd seen it and he'd taken it.
Oh my God.
I'd already forgiven Lydia for giving the folder to Stuart, had understood the position she'd been in, and yet realizing that she
hadn't
taken it, that she
hadn't
betrayed me, still made me want to weep with relief. And somehow . . . somehow it helped me forgive myself. Lydia hadn't believed I deserved to be betrayed.
I
had been the one who thought that. Not her,
me.
And it was the reason I had been so unwilling to allow her to forgive me.

It doesn't matter if you allow it or not. I still forgive you all the same. I still . . . I still love you all the same.

Oh Lydia.
Mo Chroí.

Despite all she'd dealt with that day, despite everything that had happened, she had still found it in her heart to forgive me. She'd still found the courage to come here tonight. She'd sat across from me and the woman she thought I was involved with, in at least some capacity, and she'd told me she forgave me, that she loved me. Oh
God.
The
bravery
that had taken, the
goodness
that had taken. And the faith—the faith in
me.
The realizations spun through me so powerfully, I almost felt dizzy. I turned back to Courtney.

"Go," she said, resignation in her voice, sorrow clouding her expression. "I'm thinking Fionn will be very pleased to drive me home."

I paused. "Security detail—"

"Bennett's no threat, Brogan.” She waved her hand and shook her head. “Yes, it's true he's paroled, but I lied about everything else. He wrote to me many times from prison asking for my forgiveness. Apparently he's found God. He's a changed man. And he's married to a woman he became pen pals with while he was locked up. It's very romantic. A book should be written."

Jaysus!
I stared at her, releasing a pent-up breath, but suddenly feeling only pity for all her lies, suddenly seeing her not through the cloud of my own guilt, but as the lonely, troubled woman she was. I was more than angry with her. What a bitch. "Courtney—"

"Go," she said, harsher this time, waving her hand in the air again. "I need to hate you for a little while."

I nodded. "Aye," I said.
I really wanted to hate her for more than a little while.
I had yet to fully process all the implications of her revelations, but . . .
she
had been a large part of the reason Lydia left me that day. The reason why I'd been at the office that night.
Fecking hell.
I flung the door open and ran outside, headed for my car. The snow was already dwindling, the wind in the trees seeming to sing one word over and over again:
Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.

God, I hoped she was still waiting for me.

Please be waiting for me.

Lydia

Why had I come here? I wasn't exactly sure. It even seemed somewhat illogical and self-torturous to return to this specific place after being rejected by Brogan.

I sighed, leaning back against the wall of the small room in my stable, where I was sitting, blowing into my gloved hands for added warmth.
This room.
I kept returning, somehow hoping for a different outcome than the one that had first occurred. Somehow hoping to make it right. Only we couldn't
get
it right. I'd tried. I'd bared my heart, offered my soul, and Brogan had told me I should leave. I'd driven around aimlessly for a while and somehow ended up here without really planning to. So here I was—alone—and I certainly couldn't make it right all by myself. So again, why had I come here of all places while Brogan was across town with . . .? Pain made my stomach tighten as if bracing for a blow. I closed my eyes, wrapping my arms around myself.

I stayed that way for several more minutes. Then the squeaking of door hinges replaced the silence of the snow-filled night. Creasing my brow, I stood quickly.

I saw a shadow cross the wall in the main room where a single bulb lit the large space. The room where I now stood, my heart beating quickly, was only dimly lit by what little light spilled in through the open door. I flattened my back against the wall, too afraid to call out.

When a shape appeared in the backlit doorway, I exhaled a breath I'd been holding. I'd know his shape anywhere—his height, the broad outline of his shoulders.
Brogan.
As always, my heart leaped toward him, joyous at his presence. I put my hand over the place where it lay under my skin, as if I could contain it in such a way. But it insisted in soaring with hope.

"He arrives in shadow," I said softly.

I heard him release a breath. "Just like a villain?"

My smile felt brittle, my heart rate picking up in speed. "No, sometimes heroes arrive in shadow, too. I . . . I suppose we keep trading the titles back and forth, don't we?" I'd been the villain once, too, here in this very room. I brought my hands in front of my body, gripping them together in anxiousness.

He took a step into the room, out of the direct light, allowing me to see him, allowing me to take in his bruised face.

I blinked. "God, what happened to you?"

He reached a hand up and rubbed his bruised jaw. The skin around one eye was tinged red, and he had a red cut along his cheekbone.

"Fionn and I had a talk," he said, one side of his mouth lifting in a small smile.

Ah.
Fionn.
I thought I understood. But then his smile faded and the pain in his expression broke my heart a little.

I shifted on my feet. "How'd you know where I was?" I asked.

"I didn't. I went to Daisy's first and didn't see your car. I came here next . . . Somehow I thought it might be where you'd go. Or maybe I just hoped."

"Oh." My breath hitched causing the word to break.

He paused, his eyes beseeching me, asking me . . . something. I waited, my pulse quickening. "Lydia, I . . ." He shook his head, a few snowflakes still sticking to his hair—the white crystals a striking contrast to the black strands. His expression was suddenly very raw. "I'm not very good at unrehearsed speeches. I . . ." He furrowed his brow, obviously struggling. I worked not to hold my breath as I waited, somehow knowing it was important to give him the time he needed to get his words right. "Well, Fionn says I have a way of complicating things that don't need to be complicated . . ." His eyes met mine. "Maybe he's right, and I think that if any place should inspire us to speak the simple truth, it's this place." I blinked back tears. "And so I'm just going to tell you what I should have told you at some party or another last year before I put my ridiculous revenge plan into action."

He walked closer, his pale eyes filled with what I thought was . . . fear. He was scared, but he was here.
He was here. Oh Brogan.

He reached his hand out. My eyes wandered down to it. It was trembling and the sight filled me with tenderness. I took his hand in mine, the contact making me want to weep. He felt warm and solid and he gripped me as if he was never going to let me go.
Oh please don't let me go. Not again. Please be here to stay.

"Lydia, it's so nice to see you after all these years. You look . . . God, you look even more beautiful than in my dreams. And I've dreamt about you so often. It scares me because each time I do, I wake up feeling hungry in that way I promised myself I'd never feel hungry again. Only this hunger can only be satisfied by you, and I'm . . . I'm not sure what to do about that." He ran his tongue over his front teeth, his eyes clear, blue pools of vulnerability, and I sucked in a shaky breath. "So I'm hoping you might have some ideas better than my own." I sniffled, tears pricking my eyes. He gazed at me so seriously, his expression so deeply pained. And I wanted to take him in my arms, but I didn't. "Before you say anything, you should know that, since I saw you last, I've done some things I'm not proud of, survived in ways that still bring me shame. But . . . but I'm hoping, God I'm hoping so hard that you can find it in your heart to understand and maybe help me forgive myself, because I've never been very good at that. But above anything, what I'm hoping is that we can get to know each other again and forgive
each other
for the things we did, both intentionally and unintentionally. Because I'd really like to take you somewhere warm where I can buy you a meal and then bring you back to my house and make love to you the way I wish I'd known how to do the first time."

I let out a small, sniffle-laden laugh and took a step closer to him, my heart swelling with love. "That would have been a lot to take in," I said, my smile soggy as a tear rolled down my cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb.

I pressed my lips together so they wouldn't begin trembling. "What about Courtney?" I finally whispered, my heart squeezing as I swallowed, bracing myself. Whatever he told me, I was going to try my best to understand.

"Courtney's gone back to New York City to her own life.
I only . . . God, Fionn's right, I'm an eejit." He released a loud whoosh of air. "She was lying to me. She was manipulating me, and I let her. Partly because of my own guilt. But partly because as long as Courtney was around, it meant denying myself the option of begging you for forgiveness. I thought it'd make it easier on you
and
on me. I didn't
want
you to forgive me, and I was so scared I was going to beg you to do it anyway, because I wanted you back so damned badly. I haven't touched her, Lydia. She kissed me twice, and I let her, and I'm sorry about that, not only to you, but to myself because," he shook his head, wincing slightly, "she was all wrong. She wasn't you."

Another tear rolled down my cheek. He had kissed her while we were apart. Twice. But in all fairness, I had told him I'd never forgive him.
But he had kissed her twice.
"That was a really terrible plan," I said.

He nodded. "I seem to come up with a lot of really terrible plans when it comes to you." He shook his head.

"Well, it didn't work anyway because I do forgive you."

He brought his hands to my face, cradling it gently. "She told me what she said to you that day you left my apartment. It was a twisted version of the truth, Lydia. Since the day you walked into my office, I haven't been intimate with anyone except you. I haven't
desired
anyone except you. And that's sort of an understatement."
He leaned his head down and put his forehead against mine, letting go of my face, our fingers lacing as our arms lowered.

I closed my eyes briefly, overcome with the memory of the rollercoaster of emotions of that day. I told him about Daisy calling with the news her husband was cheating, about Stuart coming over, and then Courtney showing up.

"Jaysus. No wonder," he said. And he told me about Stuart bringing his folder to his office that day, about how he'd told Brogan I had given it to him, a revelation that made me gasp with horror.

"No," I breathed. "I would never have done that. He must have taken it," I said, looking to the side, envisioning that day. "He followed me to my room, and he must have seen it and—"

"I know, Lydia. I already figured that out."

My eyes searched his, seeing the truth of his forgiveness there—forgiveness I hadn't even realized he was struggling with, forgiveness he'd bestowed before even knowing the truth.
Brogan.
I clenched my eyes shut with the pain of it all, with my own shame for making him wait for mine. We still had things to talk about, but . . . I knew in my heart everything was going to be okay. Still, regret gripped me.

"I should have talked to you. I should have trusted you."

He shook his head. "I should have charged to where you were and demanded you talk to me and answer my own questions that very day. If I had, I wouldn't have been in my office that night. And before that, I should—" I let go of one of his hands and brought two fingers to his lips.

"Let's not do this anymore. No more
I should haves
, no more keeping track of wrongs. Love doesn't keep a tally. Love doesn't seek to punish. I forgive you with my whole heart. And if you forgive me, then let's move forward from here. Let's trust each other. Let's be honest with each other, even when it's hard. Especially then."

"I didn't know how I was going to live without you, Lydia. I didn't know," he said, his voice hoarse. “I love you.
That's
my truth. It's always been my truth."

I smiled, my lips trembling, my heart soaring. "I love you, too."

He let out a breath, pressing his lips to mine, but not moving, as if the contact itself was all he could handle in that moment.

I brought my hands to his hair. "More," I whispered.

"More truth?" I smiled and though I'd meant more kissing, I didn't correct him. He kissed me briefly and pulled back, smoothing my hair.

"I want to have sleepovers with you every night for the rest of my life." He smiled gently. "I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake up to your face each morning. Someday, I—" he broke off, clearing his throat as he brought his arms around me, "I want to make another baby. I want a family. With you—only you. I want to love you and care for you and make you happy. I want to be your hero."

"Brogan," I said shakily, swallowing heavily. Tears spilled as relief and happiness flowed through every cell of my body.

"Tell me you want the same
," he said, his voice an ache-filled whisper. "I'd get down on my knees and beg ya if ya wanted me to."

I shook my head back and forth, my gaze holding his. "I'd never ask it of you, Brogan. Never." The look that passed over his face was one of such raw tenderness, it caused my heart to clench.

"I know,
Mo Chroí. Yes, I know."

At the sound of the name he'd called me all these years on his lips, I let out a small gasp of joy. I'd heard it before, but now I knew what it really meant and it made me dizzy with love.
My heart.

"I want all the things you want, too. And God, I want to hear you call me
Mo Chroí for the rest of my life. Every day.
" Brogan's mouth claimed mine then, his tongue entering me, as we both sunk to our knees, our hands moving over each other almost desperately. He released what felt like a small chuckle into my mouth and I pulled back in question.

"What?" I asked. He gazed at me lovingly. "I was just thinking that it's really cold in here, and I'd like to get you to a warm bed." His smile grew. "
And
that being down on my knees isn't really such a bad place to be when you're down here with me."

I laughed, pulling him close and resting my head against his chest as he nuzzled my hair.

After a minute we stood up and I looked around.
This room.
Warm joy filled my chest, the feeling that tonight, we'd come full circle.

The first time we'd left here, our hearts had both been broken and shredded. Tonight, those hearts had been put back together, restored. Complete.

Yesterday, today . . . and finally,
finally
, the miracle of tomorrow. I grasped Brogan's hand in mine and we walked out
together.