A Husband She Couldn't Forget. Christine Rimmer

she whispered. And then her voice gained strength. “You gave me nothing for two months and then, without so much as a phone call, you filed for divorce?”

      “That is exactly what I did.”

      “You were an assh—”

      “Yes, I was. And that’s not all. I scrawled a note on the envelope the divorce papers were in. I wrote, ‘Or you could just come home.’”

      She blinked. “Wow. You make yourself sound even worse than what my brothers told me.”

      “Yeah, well. You signed the papers and wrote your own little note. Two words. ‘Or not.’”

      That brought a low, husky laugh from her. “Good for me.”

      “I can’t say I thought so at the time, but yeah. Good for you.”

      “So then what you’re really saying is that you were a total douche-basket who threw me and our marriage away?”

      He held her gaze and told the painful truth. “That is exactly what I was and what I did.”

      She just stood there looking at him for the longest time. He had no clue what she might be thinking, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t anything good.

      And he was having a little trouble not surrendering to his insane compulsion to drop to his knees and beg her for another chance.

      He didn’t give in to that. He had no right. It was way too late for second chances, for big, dramatic gestures. He was here to help her, not add to her confusion.

      In time, she would remember her real life in Manhattan. She would realize that she had everything she’d ever wanted, that she was better off without him.

      “I don’t know what more to say, except that I am so sorry. And if there’s anything I can do now, anything at all to make it better for you, just let me know, okay?”

      “Anything.” She scoffed. “You’ll do anything for me.”

      “I just want to help.”

      “Well, okay then. Thank you for coming, Connor. As for what you can do for me, you can get the hell out.”