She hoists herself out of the water. “I’m sorry. I thought Stella gave you all the files you needed. Is she gone for the day?”
“It’s not about the spa.” I take a deep breath. “It’s about us.”
She drops back into the water. “There is no us, and if you don’t have any questions in your capacity here as a consultant, I’ll get back to my workout.” She goes under the water and pushes off the wall, returning to her laps.
I glance down at my jeans and dark gray Oxford shirt. I wasn’t planning on getting in the water, but if she’s not planning to get out . . .
I unbutton my shirt and toss it on the chair, then peel off my undershirt before unzipping my jeans and shoving them down my hips. I’m in nothing but my boxer briefs and headed toward the ladder when she emerges again, panting at the deep end of the pool.
Her eyes are wide. “What are you doing?”
I jump off the ladder into the water, letting myself sink to the bottom before pushing back to the surface. I wipe my face and grin at her. “I don’t mind talking in here. Some of my favorite memories are of being in the water with you.”
Her cheeks redden and she swims toward the ladder, no doubt to run from me—from this conversation. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You tracked me down in Vegas, gave me the hottest night of my life, and married me, but we can’t swim in the same pool?”
She glances back at me, and her gaze snags on my bare chest. I fucking love the way she looks at me, even when she’s trying not to. I wonder if she knows her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“Stay,” I say, swimming to the ladder to stop her. “Please. Last night was . . . I had no idea. I needed to process everything.”
Brinley looks around like she’s trying to make sure no one’s watching and then sinks back into the pool with me.
I try not to think about joining her in here under different circumstances, but it’s too late, and I’m glad I’m already underwater, because the memories alone have me half-hard. I clear my throat. “How was your day?”
“A little bit of an emotional rollercoaster. Yours?”
“Same.” I swallow. “I can’t stop thinking about you being a mom.”
She studies me wearily, blue eyes wild and defiant.
“If you want to stand there and slut-shame me, go ahead, but know that my father’s ahead of you by almost eleven years.”
“I’m sorry about what I said last night. I was hurt and shocked, but you don’t owe me any explanation for the choices you made.”
She blinks, as if my apology takes her by surprise. “Thank you,” she whispers.
It was a blow to realize she got pregnant right after I left, but so much of that pain was knowing she shared that with Roman. But now? After thinking it through and cooling off a little? I want to pull her into my arms and promise I’ll never treat her like her father. I’ll never shame her for doing what she had to do to cope. But I can’t hold her. I can’t whisper in her ear. Because despite the vows we spoke in Vegas, she’s not mine, and she doesn’t want to be.
“I wish I could’ve been here for you,” I say instead, and it’s such a weak fucking substitute for the things I want to say that it leaves a knot in my gut. “And I wish you would’ve felt like you could tell me about her. We talked about family in Vegas, but you . . .” Fuck, she probably doesn’t remember that, either.
She turns away and shifts in the water until she’s floating on her back and looking at the ceiling. “I remember that part.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. She closes her eyes and draws in a long breath. “You thought I’d judge you?”
She turns her head and scans my face, searching for the truth. “Don’t you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t judge you. It would’ve hurt, yes, but I think it hurt more to find out last night, to know you weren’t being completely honest with me in September.”
“I wish I had been.” She rolls to her stomach and swims to the ladder. She focuses on her fingers wrapped around the rails instead of looking at me. “If I would’ve been honest, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“How do you figure?”
She climbs out of the water and grabs a towel off a chair, rubbing herself down. I watch every move and make no effort to hide it. She’s drying her hair when she faces me, lips twisted. “You’d never have ended up in a Vegas wedding chapel with the mother of Roman Humphries’ baby.”