A Husband She Couldn't Forget. Christine Rimmer

beverage machines in the waiting area for refreshments. Her head was aching a little and she started to feel really tired.

      “Go to sleep,” urged her dad, his warm, rough hand gently squeezing her arm. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

      “Dad, really. You guys don’t need to stay.”

      He patted her hand. “Just rest. Close your eyes and let it all go...”

      She followed his whispered instructions. But before she could drift off, a nurse came in and shooed the men out to take her blood pressure and her temperature, to test her pupil reaction and ask her about her level of pain, which was minimal.

      When the nurse left, her dad and her brother Marco returned to sit with her. They talked a little. Marco reported that he’d enjoyed his first year at OU. Her dad reassured her that her mom was safe at home, tucked into bed per doctor’s orders, with her brother Pascal’s wife, Sandy, looking after her.

      Aly’s eyes drifted closed again and her father’s deep voice faded to a low drone in the background...

      She woke late in the night, with no idea where she was. Startled, she popped up straight in the strange bed and sent a bewildered glance around the dark room.

      She saw her oldest brother, Dante, slumped down asleep in the bedside chair. Something must have happened to her...

      She glanced across the room and saw the institutional clock on the wall. There was a bed tray and rollers next to her bed—a hospital bed.

       An accident. I’ve been in an accident—haven’t I?

      Her knee throbbed dully, her cheeks and forehead burned and she had a mild headache. Every time she took a breath, her chest hurt—from the seat belt, most likely.

      She must have made a noise, because as she sagged back to the pillow again, Dante flinched and opened his eyes. “Hey, little sis.” He’d always called her that, even though she was second oldest, after him. “How you feelin’?”

      “Everything aches,” she grumbled. “But I’ll live.” Longing flooded her, for the comfort of her husband’s strong arms. She needed him near. He would soothe all her pains and ease her weird, formless fears. “Where’s Connor gotten off to?”

      Dante’s mouth fell half-open, as though in bafflement at her question. “Connor?”

      He looked so befuddled, she couldn’t help chuckling a little, even though laughing made her chest and ribs hurt. “Yeah. Connor. You know, that guy I married nine years ago—my husband, your brother-in-law?”

      Dante sat up. He also continued to gape at her like she was a few screwdrivers short of a full tool kit. “Uh, what’s going on? You think you’re funny?”

      “Funny? Because I want my husband?” She bounced back up to a sitting position. “What, exactly, is happening here? I mean it, Dante. Be straight with me. Where’s Connor?”

      Now Dante sat very still, as though he feared the slightest movement might set her off, make her do something dangerous.

      And she felt dangerous. A scream of fear and longing crawled up her throat. She swallowed it down and demanded, “I want Connor. Go get him and tell him I need him. Now.” Her headache was worse, pounding so hard, a merciless hammer inside her head.

      Dante patted the air between them, trying to soothe her, to settle her down. “Aly, you have to—”

      “Connor!” She practically shouted. “Get me my husband, Dante. Bring him in here to me. Now.”

      “Okay.” Dante leaped to his feet. “Take a deep breath and try to relax. I’ll be right back...” He raced out the door.

      She pressed a hand to the sore spot on her head as it throbbed all the harder. “Connor,” she whispered, shutting her eyes, willing him to come to her. Connor, I need you. I need you so much...

      A nurse bustled in, Dante close on her heels. “What can I get for you, Alyssa?”

      “My husband,” she demanded. “I want you to get my husband in here now.”

       Chapter Two

      Wednesday morning, just as Connor Bravo was about to leave for work, the doorbell rang.

      Connor dropped his briefcase on the floor by the stairs leading down to the garage and went to answer, half expecting it to be Mrs. Garber from next door looking for Maurice. The lean, black cat was always getting out. He would strut around the neighborhood, his skinny tail held high, like he owned every house on Sandpiper Lane—and the people in them, too.

      But it wasn’t Mrs. Garber.

      “Hello, Connor.” Dante Santangelo, dressed in Valentine Bay PD blues, stuck his fists in his pockets and gave Conner a barely perceptible nod.

      “Dante.” What was he doing here? Once, they’d been best friends. But for the past seven years, they’d both taken pains to steer clear of each other.

      Alyssa? The name ricocheted in his brain, a boomerang with sharp edges.

      Had something happened to her? Just the thought had him widening his stance to keep from staggering where he stood. “What?” he heard himself ask, the single word ragged, overloaded with equal parts fear and regret—fear for whatever could be so bad it had brought her brother to his door again.

      And regret for all the ways that he, Connor, had messed up. He’d been a complete ass and he knew it, a selfish kid who’d screwed up his marriage to the most amazing woman in the world—and then refused to even try to fix what he’d broken.

      How many times had he wished he could have another shot?

      Too many.

      But he didn’t deserve another shot. He’d thrown away what he wanted most. And when he’d finally admitted to himself what an idiot he’d been, it was a long way past too late.

      The hard fact was that the best thing he could do for Aly was to leave her the hell alone, let her live the life she loved in New York City and find a better guy than him.

      Dante’s expression gave him nothing. “We need to talk.”

      His heart in his throat and his gut twisted into a double knot, Connor stepped back and gestured his ex-best friend inside.

      Dante refused Connor’s stilted offer of coffee. In the living room, Aly’s brother stood by the slate fireplace and flatly recited the scary facts. “Four days ago, driving home from Portland International, reportedly in an effort to avoid an oncoming car, Aly swerved and ran into a tree. She wasn’t speeding, but she was going fast enough that her rental car was totaled.”

      Connor’s heart, still stuck in his throat, seemed to have turned to a block of solid ice. “What are you telling me? My God, is she...?”

      “She’s alive, but she’s pretty banged up. And she had a concussion. She was knocked unconscious, though not for that long.”

      Connor’s heart slid down into his chest again and recommenced beating—too fast. “So then, you’re saying she’s okay?”

      “Not exactly...”

      Connor shoved his hands in his own pockets to keep from grabbing Dante and shaking more information from him—or worse, punching him a few times until he finally explained what had happened to Aly. “Is she okay or not?”

      “At first, we thought she was going to be fine.”

      “But...?”

      “She woke up before dawn the morning after the wreck, and asked for you.”

      For