A Husband She Couldn't Forget. Christine Rimmer

into the front hall. Nobody spoke. An endless couple minutes ticked by.

      And then, at last, Aly appeared in the open doorway to the foyer, with Marco right behind her. She had bruises on her pale arms and two black eyes. A white bandage covered a spot on the left side of her head. The gorgeous, milky skin of her cheeks and forehead was scraped raw and scabbed over. Cuts and scratches marred the soft column of her neck. Only her glorious mane of dark hair appeared unscathed, except for that shaved area on the left side. It was covered with a white bandage. She looked like hell—and so damn beautiful it hurt.

      She gasped at the sight of him. He probably did the same. It rocked him, rocked him deep, just to see her again.

      There was a moment, endless and so sweet. They stared at each other. God, it was good. A complete lie, yeah, but perfect nonetheless. She was looking at him the way she used to before he screwed it all up. Like he was everything that mattered, the center of her world.

      As the seconds ticked by, he grew more and more certain that she would throw herself into his arms. He could not wait.

      She didn’t do it, though. Instead she came forward with her head high and held out a hand. Every nerve in his body on fire with hopeless yearning, he took it.

      “Come on,” she said, and turned for the foyer again.

      “Hey!” Dante started after them as the other Santangelo men let out a chorus of protests.

      “Aly, no...”

      “Aly, stay here.”

      “You’re not leaving this room,” said her dad.

      Still holding tight to Connor’s hand, Aly stopped in the doorway. She turned and pinned them all with a look. “I will talk to my husband alone if you don’t mind.”

      Dante froze where he stood.

      And Ernesto, who never could refuse her anything, gave in. “Let them go.” Suddenly, he looked old.

      Not another word was spoken. Aly led Connor across the foyer and up the stairs. She entered the second room along the upstairs hall, the room that had been hers when she was growing up.

      He remembered that room. Even after they got married, her mom had kept it for Aly, with her purple satin bedspread and black lacquer furniture. Pictures of him and Aly and of her school friends had remained stuck beneath the mirror frame of the vanity table.

      Not anymore, though. Cat had redone it—as a guest room, apparently. The walls were a tan color, the bedspread a soft blue.

      He heard Aly shut the door, and turned from studying the room to face her.

      “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Connor. At last.”

      And then she did throw herself at him.

      Heedless of the rules not to encourage her, he opened his arms and grabbed her close. She hopped up, the way she used to do, and wrapped her arms and legs around him.

      “Aly...” He tried to be careful of her, to remember her injuries. But at the same time, he couldn’t crush her close enough. She felt like heaven and the ginger scent of her was so sweet, so well remembered. It filled him with longing and regret.

      “Connor...” She lifted her head from where she’d buried it against his shoulder. “Oh, Conn...” Tipping her chin high, she offered her mouth to him, surging up higher, eager to meet his lips.

      He’d never wanted anything so much in his life as to steal a kiss from her right now.

      But he couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be right.

      “Hey, now...” Reluctantly, and much more gently than he’d grabbed her, he eased her thighs from around him. Setting her carefully down, he stepped back.

      She stared up at him, shattered. “Tell me.” Bright red stained her battered cheeks. “Say it.”

      “I’m sorry, I...” Words failed him.

      She’d always been the stronger one. Now, she said it for him in a flat voice. “We’re not married. You filed to divorce me seven years ago. I live in New York and I have a fabulous career. And you and me, we’re just...not anymore.”

      He blinked down at her. “So then, you do know? You remember now?”

      She laughed then, a wild laugh, and tossed her midnight hair. “No, I do not remember.” She put both hands to her head, as if to steady her brain after shaking it. “But it’s what everyone keeps telling me. It’s what I see in your eyes when I look at you.” She held up her left hand, poked her thumb at her ring finger. “Bare. That’s a big clue, right? My laptop is toast, but they recovered my purse and phone from the wreck of my rental car. I have a New York driver’s license. It says my last name is Santangelo. And I’m on social media. I’ve seen a bunch of great pictures of me with my friends and colleagues in Manhattan. I wear a lot of black and I have amazing shoes.” She put her hands to her head again. “Also, everything’s pretty fuzzy in here. I believe, I’m absolutely certain in my heart, that you and I are still married. But I don’t really remember much specifically—about you and me and our life now. I can’t tell you where we live or what we do, together, day by day...”

      “Because we aren’t together.” The words came out of him sounding cold. Cruel. He tried for a gentler tone. “Not anymore. Not for seven years.”

      “My family has explained it all to me, over and over, that we broke up because you wanted to stay in Oregon and I was determined to have a career with a major advertising firm. That you divorced me when I took a job in New York.”

      “That’s right,” he said gently. “That’s what happened. That’s the truth, at least basically.”

      She sneered at him. “Basically, huh? So then, what is the deeper truth, Connor? Tell me about that.”

      He’d come here to be honest with her, but still he hesitated, reluctant to admit what a rotten jerk he’d been. “You really don’t remember any of it?”

      She raised her hand and laid it carefully over the white bandage on the side of her head. “Just...random images. Nothing makes sense.”

      He stared down at her. Where to even start?

      “Tell me,” she demanded again.

      He made himself do it. “From the first, when we were at OU together, you were all about getting out, getting away. No small-town life for you, you told me. And I went along with you, I agreed with you. I said I wanted what you wanted, that I would go with you. I would get a job in finance. We would take New York by storm. I pretended to be all gung ho about it. You interviewed with your dream company in Manhattan and they hired you. We even signed a lease on a postage stamp of an apartment.”

      “But you didn’t really want to go?”

      He shook his head. “We were packing for the move when I finally admitted I didn’t want to do it. I wanted a life here in Valentine Bay, working with my brother, building the family business.”

      She seemed more confused than before. “You lied because...?”

      “I didn’t want to lose you. I told myself you’d change your mind, that deep in your heart, you didn’t want to go, either.”

      “But I really did want to go?” It wasn’t quite a question.

      “Yeah. You did. You really did. Still, when I finally admitted I wasn’t going, you were...patient with me. You tried to compromise, begged me just to try New York for a year and then we would reevaluate.”

      “And you?”

      “I dug in.” He couldn’t meet those bruised blue eyes. “I said forget it, I wasn’t going. I was so sure that when it came right down to the wire, you wouldn’t leave me, that you would give it up and stay home.”

      “But I didn’t.”

      “No.