The Rejected Wife: Chapter 12

‘You’ve got to stop feeding me like this.’ I chew another forkful of the pasta, savoring the creamy, complex textures of the dish. Turns out, he was hungry. So he wanted, not only to have a drink, but also to eat.

He whipped up what turned out be an Aglio Olio e Peperoncino—pasta with olive oil, garlic, hot pepper and parmesan cheese—in very little time.

After pulling on my blouse and skirt, I was content to sit at the counter and watch his graceful movements around the kitchen. I was right. The man can cook.

I’m surprised that after I called it off after we were on the verge of fucking, he wasn’t upset. Instead, he made me dinner—a very delicious dinner—and seems happy to sit here talking to me. Which is what he professed he wanted to do all along. So, I shouldn’t be surprised. Especially after he’d accused me of holding him to a stereotype. In fact, he’s not given me any reason to doubt him so far. So why is it that, after wanting to jump into bed with him, I changed my mind at the last minute?

His size was an excuse. I acknowledge that. On some level, I suspect I’m not ready to take that last step physically. I’ve always thought being a virgin wasn’t a big deal so it wouldn’t matter when I decided to sleep with someone. Especially not when I’ve pleasured myself with toys. But there’s a difference between a silicon appendage being inside me and the real thing. And it’s not only because the dimensions of my vibrator pale in comparison to how big he is.

Perhaps, on some level, I sense that giving myself to him physically would mean giving him my heart. And I’m not ready yet. Not when there’s so much about him I don’t know.

I’ve been waiting for the right person and the right circumstances to give up my virginity. I’m still convinced he’s the right person, but giving up something I’ve held onto that’s important to me is scary. Maybe I just need more reassurance that he’s the one, even if my heart already insists that he is?

He pours us each a glass of white wine; it’s clean and dry on the palate. I may have left home at eighteen, but thanks to my parents’ moneyed background, my tastes were already refined by then. Enough to appreciate the kind of quality ingredients only money can buy.

‘I love taking care of you.’ He takes a sip of his wine and places the glass down.

A melting sensation swirls in my chest. This man seems hell-bent on breaking the stereotype I have of alphas as being selfish and not nurturing. I’m also not used to a man who is so open with his feelings. I certainly wouldn’t have expected that from someone like Tyler—who’s a billionaire, who looks like Adonis, and lives and breathes confidence.

I’m stereotyping him again. Something he gently reprimanded me for. Not sure how to respond to his comment, I content myself with pointing to his almost empty plate. “You eat quickly.”

He pops a shoulder. “A leftover from my military days, when I had to eat on the go and in shared dining rooms.”

Now that, I want to know more about. “When did you join the Marines?’

“I was eighteen when I joined the Royal Marines; twenty when I went on my first call of duty. Led five more before I retired at thirty-two. That was two years ago. I joined the family business and have run one of the Davenport Group of companies ever since.”

He’s nine years older than me. “Why did you enlist?”

He takes a sip of his wine, his expression contemplative. “My uncle served. As did my older brothers. My grandfather thought it would be character-building. And that it was great PR to further the value of the shares of our group company. That’s not the reason I joined, though. I did it because…I wanted to.” He fixes me with a serious look. “It was a calling. A compulsion, even. I was born into a family with plenty. It felt like I should give back something to the country and the community which gave me so much.”

His tone tells me his sentiments are genuine. The expression on his face adds gravitas to his words.

“It’s unusual to come across someone who feels called to do something for the greater good,” I finally say.

“You mean, it’s rare for someone from my background of privilege to do something other than join the family business—” His lips kick up. “Which I did, ultimately.”

“But only after you served your country,” I point out.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal.” His lips twist. “There were many moments—especially in the midst of a tough mission—when I questioned the sanity of why I had signed up to do this, but⁠—”

“But you persisted.”

He breathes in slowly, cracks his neck as if composing his thoughts. ‘There was a time, when I first joined the Marines and was back from my first mission… When I saw friends upfront being killed and innocents among the enemy being slaughtered… When the clarity of what I’d signed up for… When the futility of what I was embarking on became clear to me… It was my lowest phase.”

There’s anguish in his voice and a pain that shines through which dissipates the last of the walls I’ve tried to throw up around my heart. Whatever he’s feeling, whatever he went through, it tested him. It changed him. It made him grow up and become the man he is today… The result of which, I’m attracted to, hugely.

And I love the fact that he’s confiding in me. His openness to talk about himself is as intoxicating as his sex-on-a-stick attractiveness.

“How did you get over it?”

“You never really get over it.” He looks into the distance, his gaze contemplative. “You realize that, while you might have started out with altruistic intentions, ultimately, you’re playing a small part in much bigger program you can’t really see. But that you can still make a difference by doing your part well. By being there for your fellow Marines. By doing the right thing by them and most people you come in contact with.”

There’s a wistfulness to his tone which makes me muse, “You miss the Marines.”

That half-smile is back. “I miss the camaraderie. The shared purpose. The going after the bad guys. It’s more black-and-white in the Marines. You have a goal. A purpose. You put your life on the line because of your beliefs. You learn to trust your instincts. To savor the adrenaline of the shared mission. Your focus is on bringing yourself and your teammates back home in one piece. You live and breathe your mission. Your every waking minute is spoken for.” He shakes his head.

“It sounds stressful.”

“It is. That’s what makes it addictive.” He lowers his chin. “And yes, I do miss it.”

“How did you acclimatize back to daily life?”

When he stays silent, I explain, “I’ve heard it’s difficult for soldiers to adjust back to civilian life?”

‘I didn’t do a great job of it, I’m afraid.” He shifts in his seat. A sheepish look crosses his features. “In those early days of trying to lead a life outside the forces, I used alcohol as a crutch. I’d often be blind-drunk enough to wake up in a different bed each morning, with a different woman I didn’t recognize. A nameless, faceless person I used to try and get the frustration out of my system. Not that it helped much.’ He shrugs.

He’s already been upfront that he’s dated other women. This time, I’m somewhat unsurprised by the familiar stinging sensation in my chest. I may have known him for very little time, but this connection between us, which has grown stronger with every passing hour, makes me feel like I have a right to feel possessive about him. After all, by his own admission, he hasn’t felt this way about any other woman before me, either.

‘By the time I realized how destructive I was being, a few months had passed. It was Brody, my younger brother, who gave me a talking to and told me to pull myself together.’ He half-smiles. ‘We got into a fight, which I was too drunk to win. But his thrashing me was the best thing he could have done. I⁠—’

The doorbell rings.

We look at each other.

‘Were you expecting company?’

He shakes his head. ‘No one was announced, so it must be someone security recognizes.’ He looks around and swears. ‘I left my phone by the bed, so I don’t know if any of them called me, either.’

The doorbell rings again, then again. The sound is harsh, jarring, almost insistent. A shiver runs up my spine. A frisson of discomfort stabs into my breastbone. Not sure why I feel like it’s an alarm bell, a warning.

I shake my head and attempt a smile. ‘Whoever that is, is impatient.’

‘Sorry about this.’ He rises to his feet and walks out of the kitchen. Unable to sit still, I jump up and follow him through the living room to the front door. He looks through the peephole then steps back.

“There’s no one there.” His tone is impatient.

He throws the door open and looks around. “I’m going to complain to security.” Then he looks down, and his entire body freezes.

Something about how motionless he is—the bunched muscles of his torso, the way his shoulder blades stand out with surgical precision against his shirt—fires another ripple of alarm through my bloodstream. I hurry and close the distance to him. ‘Who is it?’

I draw abreast, stand next to him, and look down at a carrier with what seems like an oversized diaper bag left next to it. Huh? A carrier? A baby carrier? What the—? I peer closely at it. Is that the curve of a tiny head with downy hair peeking out? My heart leaps into my throat. My mind recognizes what I’m seeing, but the connection between my brain and my mouth seems to be lost.

It’s Tyler who recovers first. ‘It’s a baby.”