Chapter 6
My heart felt as though it were being squeezed in a vice. "Grant..."
"I woke up terrified that my family’s rot would ruin you," he continued, pouring out the truths he had buried beneath ice and steel. "I went back to the city to wage war against my father and the board. I spent the last three months clawing full controlling interest of Hale Meridian away from the family trust so that no one—no committee, no trustee, no grandfather clause—could ever dictate terms to us again."
He looked up at the scattered pieces of paper on the floor.
"I brought those papers today because I was a coward," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I thought you hated me. I thought you saw me only as the monster who bought your father's life's work. Every time I came near you, you were so guarded, so distant. I convinced myself that releasing you was the only decent thing I had left to give you."
He reached out, his large, trembling palm slowly hovering over the gentle curve beneath my sweater.
"May I?" he asked, looking at me with an agonizing humility I had never imagined him capable of.
I nodded, the tears rolling freely down my cheeks now.
His palm settled over my belly.
A deep, broken breath shuddered through his entire frame as he felt the warmth of his unborn children. The man who owned skylines, ports, and steel bowed his head against my waist and began to weep.
"Two," he whispered against my sweater, his tears soaking through the fabric. "God, Nora... two."
"Twins," I whispered back, my hand lifting weakly, my fingers finding their way into his rain-damp, dark hair just as they had that July night. "A boy and a girl, Dr. Parker thinks, though she couldn't confirm until the anatomy scan."
Grant lifted his head, kissing the knuckles of the hand hooked to the IV line. "You are not going to Vermont. You are not running away to an attic or selling your mother's jewelry. Hawthorne House is yours, free and clear—the mortgage was paid off yesterday morning from my personal account, not the company's."
"Grant, I don't want your charity—"
"It is not charity," he interrupted fiercely, leaning in until his breath warmed my lips. "It is your home. And if you will let me... if you could ever forgive me for being so blind, so stupid, and so cowardly... I want it to be our home."