The Surgeon's Meant-To-Be Bride. Amy Andrews
“I’m asking you to let me go so I can find someone who wants a child as much as I do.”
The thought of her with someone else hurt like a fresh bruise deep inside. But she was right. If he couldn’t give her what she wanted it was wrong to keep her bound to him.
Gill sighed as he removed the divorce papers from the envelope. “Are you sure, Harry? What we have is special. Are you sure you can find that with someone else?”
He didn’t mean to sound conceited—he was just stating a fact. And it was buying him time. Putting off the inevitable.
“No, Gill.” She shut her eyes briefly and opened them again. “I’m just looking for a different kind of love. One that has room for three.”
He nodded slowly. Their love had always been all consuming. Blocking everything and everybody else out.
Yet, she looked so lovely standing in front of him and the desire to hold her in his arms was overwhelming.
Dear Reader,
It’s nearly seven in the morning and I can’t sleep. Today is the last day of our medical team’s rotation in this war zone. One of many over the years. The team and I operated for sixteen hours straight yesterday and didn’t finish until well into the night. But I don’t mind—I thrive on the challenge. And as great as it is to leave, it won’t take me long to miss it again. I love being part of this great team of people. Sure it can be dangerous, but what we do makes a difference to so many lives.
So why am I lying here awake when I should be sleeping? It’s Harriet. My wife. I’m losing her. I can’t put my finger on it, but last night, as we were standing together side by side and she was passing me instruments, I could feel her pulling away from me. We’ve been reconciled for two months now and I thought we were past the baby stalemate. Why is it that I can fix broken bodies with my eyes shut, but can’t seem to fix the rift in my marriage?
I love Harriet. From the moment I saw her, I’ve never wanted anyone else. The year we were separated was hell. Worse than living in a war zone. Our marriage had been perfect, an extension of our operating style—flawless with a poetic symmetry. But suddenly she wanted a baby. And I didn’t. And we were at an impasse. When she came back, I thought the issue had been resolved but…maybe not.
And so now I have a day to pull her back. It’s not much time, but a lot can happen in twenty-four hours—particularly here. I simply can’t bear the thought of losing her again.
Wish me luck, dear reader. Wish me luck.
Regards,
Dr. Guillaume Remy
The Surgeon’s Meant-To-Be Bride
Amy Andrews
To Mark. For everything. LUVVM
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
0700 HOURS
THE divorce papers burnt a hole in her hand as she carried the large yellow envelope to her soon-to-be ex-husband’s sleeping quarters. Nausea threatened and she swallowed hard to dispel it.
Just knock on the door, hand it over, then leave, Harriet lectured herself as her rubber-soled shoes squeaked loudly on the aged linoleum in the hushed corridors. Do not stop for a chat. Do not go in for coffee. Do not let him make love to you.
She tossed her head and clamped down on the irony that threatened to bubble up in her chest and escape as sarcastic laughter. Sex, Harriet. Have sex with you. Their days of love-making were long past and she couldn’t afford such romantic stupidity.
They were getting divorced. The end. Finito. Period. They were just having a little difficulty remembering their differences in the haze of lust that descended upon them every time they got a little too close. Harriet hadn’t yet worked out the co-ordinates of that invisible line—the one that separated close and too close—but she certainly knew when she’d crossed it. Except by then it was usually…always…too late.
Harriet stopped in front of his door, gathering her courage. Tomorrow. She gripped the envelope tighter. She would be gone tomorrow and his signature would be on the papers and she could get on with her life. So she had to do this now.
She’d had the papers since she’d arrived in this country over two months ago but part of her had held back. Somewhere inside there had still been a small kernel of hope. A little Pollyanna ray of sunshine that had believed she could truly convince him to change his mind.
But two months of alternating between fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants medical drama and snatched moments of incredible can’t-get-enough-of-you sex hadn’t resolved anything. Sex they were great at. Marriage they weren’t.
Harriet took a moment to tie her wavy hair back in a hastily constructed ponytail.