The Road to Rose Bend by Naima Simone (best book club books of all time txt) 📕

“Doesn’t excuse me. And today... God, you must’ve stood there suffering, and I was so damn oblivious. So wrapped up in me. My pregnancy. My baby. My happiness—”

“Stop it.” He didn’t mean to snap at her, but as he recaptured her chin and tilted her head back, he didn’t regret it. Anger, hot and impatient, licked at him, and he narrowed his gaze on her. “You. Didn’t. Know. You’re right about why I had a difficult time being around you at first.”

Lie.

Well, not the whole truth. But he for damn sure wasn’t going to explain to her how it wasn’t just her being pregnant that made being around her like walking a quickly unraveling tightrope—complete with the unnerving sense of free fall, fear and a twisted excitement. If only it was just wanting to corrupt that soft mouth and softer body with all the dark, filthy desires that a two-year sexual hiatus had stored up. But it wasn’t.

She reminded him of the life he’d lost.

Taunted him with the lust that should’ve died with Tonia.

But no. He wouldn’t be sharing that with her today.

Or ever.

A freshly divorced single mother who had more than enough on her plate with starting over. She deserved more than him fucking her to get his demons out. Because he couldn’t give her anything else. Didn’t have it to give. While his body might’ve reawakened after a long hibernation, his heart... That was still buried under a gravestone with two names etched into it.

“But,” he continued in the same crisp tone, “I got over that. You’re my friend. And friends show up for one another. They support one another, and yes, sacrifice for each other. We talked about this bad habit of yours. Taking on the blame for other people’s actions. Today was on me. And yes, it hurt. I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t thinking of another time when I’d been there with my wife, looking at my son on that monitor. But to see your smile, your joy, your healthy baby...” He shifted his hand to cradle her face. Swept a thumb over the damp, tender skin above her cheekbone. “I’d do it again. Because whatever I was feeling didn’t compare to that. So do me a favor, okay? Don’t apologize again. Not to me. Never to me.”

She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t object either. And that horrible starkness had started to disappear from her eyes. Counting it as a win, he snatched up several sheets of tissue from the box on his desk and handed them to her. She accepted them with a murmured “thank you.”

“Now, tell me who called you selfish.”

Her lashes fluttered, lowering. She tried to duck her head, but his hand prevented it.

“Don’t hide from me,” he gently ordered. A shaft of pleasure pierced him when she instantly obeyed, giving him her eyes. What other instructions would she follow? Would she put up a token resistance, or would she immediately, so fucking sweetly, submit? He swallowed, but when he spoke, nothing could erase the roughness of his voice. Lust caused it, and he suspected only lust could ease it. “Who hurt you?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I went to see my mother. I should’ve known better. Ours isn’t the healthiest or most loving relationship. But since things had gone well with Dad, I...”

“You thought she would be happy for you, and the good news about the baby could be common ground you could build on.”

“Yes.” The tip of her tongue slicked over her bottom lip, and he jerked his gaze from the wanton temptation of it. “I thought... Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. She was happy. Even gave me a gift of maternity clothes she’d bought for me. But then,” she paused, cuddled closer to him in a move that he suspected was unconscious, “everything went so wrong. She mentioned talking to my ex-husband and told me I was only thinking about myself and not the baby and definitely not my baby’s father by moving here. That I was being impulsive, irresponsible and stubborn. Y’know, the usual.” Her mouth curved into a smile that possessed no trace of humor.

“And I’m assuming your ex agrees?” he pressed, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

“What?”

“When you were crying you mentioned a ‘he.’ I’m assuming you were referring to your ex-husband.”

“Yes,” she admitted after a brief hesitation. “That’s been Daniel’s favorite word to describe me lately. For not remarrying him and giving our baby a two-parent home. For moving a thousand miles away. For preventing him from being a father. I tried explaining to him—and my mother—why I needed to do this. Not wanted to. Needed. But neither of them understood.”

“Try me.”

She blinked. Stared into his eyes, and he leaned his head back or risked drowning in those espresso depths. He focused on the lingering pain there, clutching that like a lifeline.

“I told my mother I was suffocating. She probably thought I was being dramatic, but I couldn’t find another word to describe the slow, steady death of my independence, my dreams, my voice. Myself. It’s not Daniel’s fault, and I’m not blaming him. He never lied to me, didn’t pull a bait and switch. But I pulled one on him. I never complained when he wouldn’t let me contribute toward the household bills, and I became financially dependent on him. I didn’t object when his career took precedence over mine. I didn’t utter a word when my opinions didn’t hold as much weight as his. I didn’t put up even a token protest, but inside? Inside, I was quietly raging. Resenting not just him, but myself for staying silent. For being so desperate for affection, to be one of a two, to belong to someone, that I was willing to lose my own identity to have it. But in the end, I guess my survival instincts kicked in. I needed more. Needed to be more than just an extension of Daniel. Needed more than settling for