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He shifted a little in the bed, wincing as his chest radiated with pain. The last thing he wanted was to get married to Sarah like this. But even if he did—even if he weren’t bothered by the idea of marrying Sarah with his body in this state—how the hell could he go through with it?

Her whispered declaration of loving him had complicated everything.

Had turned this from a safe, predictable situation into something else entirely. Something that plunged him right back into the panic he’d known as a child. Love was the last thing he wanted in his life.

He needed to put a hold on the wedding until he could sort this out, until he could make sure this was the right decision—for both of them. He knew the pain of loving and not being loved back, and he wasn’t going to put Sarah through that. They needed to reestablish some boundaries, and fast. Then they’d work out the best way forward.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE LAST TWENTY-FOUR hours had been a baptism of fire. Earlier that morning, the most important thing on their horizon had been the press release about their engagement. She’d actually cared who knew she was pregnant with a Carrigan.

But Tate’s accident put everything into perspective; so, too, the realisation that, despite her best efforts, she’d fallen head over heels in love with him. And told him, to resounding silence.

On the other side of the door to his hospital room, she closed her eyes, wishing she could take back those words, that she hadn’t been so desperate as to have said them. But in the heat of the moment, her worry, her fear, they’d felt vital to offer to him. She’d needed him to know what was in her heart.

Now he did.

And his heart? A little voice in the back of her mind pushed. What did he feel? What did he want?

Nervousness formed a thousand tiny butterflies inside her as she pressed a hand to the door and opened it softly, scanning the private room to make sure he was awake. Not only was that so, he was staring across the room with a brooding expression on his handsome, bruised face. Just the sight of him like this—strong, tanned, battered but not broken, in a white hospital gown—pulled at every single piece of her. She bit back a sob, not wanting to show him how terrified she’d been, all over again.

His eyes moved to hers, landing on her with a thud, his expression inscrutable. She stared at him, seeking an answer without knowing it. Wanting him to say something to make her feel better.

He didn’t.

The silence stretched, and her nerves exploded.

‘You should be lying down,’ she murmured, voice unsteady.

‘I’m better than I look. They’re discharging me tomorrow.’

A frown flickered on her face. ‘So soon?’

‘Not soon enough for me.’

The frown turned into a small smile. That was classic Tate right there.

‘Our wedding’s tomorrow,’ she said, the words small in the hospital room. Small, and lost. Bereft, somehow. Because even without him saying anything, she knew it was different now. She knew she’d changed everything, and couldn’t change it back.

‘Sarah.’ He said her name like a curse, and she bit into her lower lip, emotions rioting through her. But he stopped short, just staring at her, lips tugging downwards, as though he wasn’t sure how to say what he was thinking.

‘You don’t want to go through with it.’ There. She’d done it for him. She’d said the words she could tell he was thinking, even when they devastated her. But she crossed her fingers and hoped, hoped with all of her heart, that she was wrong.

‘This isn’t what I wanted.’

Her heart stammered. She forced herself to walk across the room, closer to his bedside. ‘What’s not?’

He stared straight ahead, rather than looking at her. ‘What you said, in the ute. Did you mean it?’

It was a moment of reckoning. An ‘out’. She could lie. Tell him she’d just been emotional, terrified by the sight of the downed helicopter and his battered body. Tell him nothing had changed for her over the past week. But loving someone meant being honest with them, no matter what. Besides, she couldn’t marry him with that lie between them. Now that she understood how she felt, she knew her love would radiate out from every single part of her, shining like sunbeams towards Tate and their child. Their family.

She dug her fingernails into her palms to hold back the sob that was thickening in her throat.

He angled his face then, impatience in the lines around his tightly pressed lips. ‘Sarah?’ Classic Tate. Demanding, imperative. As though everything was riding on her answer. Which, she supposed, it was.

‘Yes.’ There. She’d said it. Brave, and honest. The truth. So what? If nothing else, at least he would know she loved him. At least she could give him that. ‘I love you. So what?’

‘So what?’ he repeated, and for all she’d imagined that love shining out of her like sunbeams, the opposite could be said of Tate. Storm clouds seemed to thunder across his handsome, symmetrical features. ‘You’ve spent the last week saying you hardly know me. We just met.’