I nod along as she goes through some basic pregnancy advice, and I accept the pamphlets she offers. But I’m trapped in my own mind, nausea tearing me apart as I realize I have to tell George I’m pregnant. I have to tell his wife.

I’ve become the kind of woman I swore I’d never be.

Part XI.

Shay

October 15th, seven years ago

I’ve had months—hell, years—to prepare for this, and there’s still something so surreal about seeing my father in that casket.

The last days were a slow trudge to a finish line none of us was sure we wanted to see. When he finally crossed and we saw the end to his pain, we were all . . . relieved. We’ve grieved, we will continue to grieve, but death itself was welcome.

After a four-hour visitation, my feet are screaming and my fingers ache from all the consoling handshakes. I just want to go home to Mom’s place and curl up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate, like I’m a kid wrapping up a particularly hard day of school and not a grown woman who’s about to bury her father.

“Almost done,” Mom says next to me, flashing me a shaky smile.

I nod. Almost done. Then tomorrow, we’ll return for the service and put my father in the ground. My throat thickens at the thought.

It’s been a day of whispers and respectful silence, but I straighten when the whispers change, when they seem to roll through the room and heads turn toward the door . . . where Easton Connor has appeared and is hugging Carter with the fierceness of an old friend who understands your heartache better than anyone.

I didn’t know Easton was coming. I didn’t ask. Didn’t even think about him until now.

A shiver races up my arms at the sight of him. He looks so impossibly broad in his black suit, but my mind instantly strips it off him, remembering the sight of him under me in his hotel room, the feel of his rough hands on my thighs as I rode him.

Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re flushed. Do you need to sit down?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s almost over.”

Slowly, Easton works his way through my family members, inching closer to us with each condolence.

When he reaches me, it’s not the memory of three weeks ago that makes my knees weak but the emotion in those sea-green eyes. I’ve been so focused on Dad and being there for my family the past few weeks that I haven’t had time to talk to Easton, let alone consider how this loss would affect him. How could I be so selfish and forget what my dad meant to Easton? Dad was always there when Easton’s own should have been.