“You didn’t tell me where you were going.”
“Touché.” Beside her, she saw his hand give a restive flex. “I went to the island. The house is a mess, but the nursery looks good. It should all be repaired and ready for us by the time the baby arrives.”
“Us?” She bobbled the umbrella and her nerveless fingers nearly shot the pencil across the pebbly ground. “You and the baby?”
“All of us.”
“You ended our marriage, Angelo. You left.” Her chest locked up and she could only blindly stare at the chop of white beards on the gray scroll of waves. She had come away because she couldn’t face that he’d abandoned her so unceremoniously.
“You said you wouldn’t let my past change your commitment to our marriage.”
“It didn’t.”
His hand caught the fabric of her umbrella and shoved it back so he could see her. Rain had soaked into his hair and was running down his face. The spitting drops peppered her face as she looked up at him.
“Then why are you here?” he growled.
“You said we were over. I needed to feel like myself again. To do something I know how to do well instead of...” Faking it. Banging into walls. Falling in love and failing at marriage.
“I was worried about you.”
“The baby is fine. I spoke to the doctor before I came away. She said it was okay to come.”
“I was worried about you.”
“No one ever worries about me.” She tried to shove her umbrella back into place.
He didn’t let her. “I worry about you.”
“The baby—”
“You,” he nearly shouted.
She was so startled, she let go of the handle. He lost his own grip and the umbrella tumbled away in the wind.
Pia didn’t move, only tugged her woolen hat more firmly onto her head.
“I’m still one of the blue bloods you love to hate,” she reminded him.
“You’re the only blue blood I can stand,” he muttered. “My own included. Hopefully our baby will have more of yours than mine.”
“You’ll love it either way?”
“I will.” His tortured gaze shifted to the water. “I can’t change what I am, Pia. Sometimes I hate myself for existing. For causing so much pain to someone I loved.”
“I can’t speak for her, Angelo, but it sounds like she loved you exactly as you were, despite the blood you carry. That blood doesn’t change how I feel about you or how I’ll feel about our baby.”
“How do you feel about me?”
Her eyes welled. She looked down at the page that was growing soaked.
“Do you want to hear how I feel? Angry,” he said, sounding incensed. “I’m angry on your behalf. I hate that your father doesn’t see how special you are and that your mother values her wealth and standing over the suffering she causes you.”
“It doesn’t—”
“Don’t say it doesn’t matter. It matters. You matter, Pia. You matter to me. But I understand that she won’t change. Neither of them will. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She dug