How To Mend A Broken Heart

How To Mend A Broken Heart
Amy Andrews

Facing her estranged husband Fletcher was always going to be heartbreaking for nurse Tessa King. Especially as Fletcher has one last favour to ask – with his mother critically ill, he needs Tessa to pretend tragedy never tore their marriage apart. Impossible when your husband’s the one man it hurts your heart to touch…but the one man you can’t resist…

Praise for Amy Andrews:

‘A spectacular set of stories by Ms Andrews,

the ITALIAN SURGEON TO DAD! duet book features

tales of Italian men who know how to

leave a lasting impression in the imaginations

of readers who love the romance genre.’

—Cataromance.com on ITALIAN SURGEON TO DAD

‘THE ITALIAN COUNT’S BABY—4 stars!’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Whether Amy Andrews is an auto-buy for you,

or a new-to-you author, this book

is definitely worth reading.’

—Pink Heart Society Book Reviews on A MOTHER FOR MATILDA

Amy also won a

RB*Y (Romantic Book of the Year) Award in 2010 for

A DOCTOR, A NURSE, A CHRISTMAS BABY!

How to Mend

a Broken Heart

Amy Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For Carita. Who knows.

Dear Reader,

The subject matter of this book is a difficult one. The death of a child and the often paralysing grief that comes with it aren’t exactly ripe for a romance novel. But in my line of work, I have unfortunately seen many couples go through this harrowing experience and I so often wonder how they fare when they leave the surrealness of the hospital setting and have to get on with their lives without the little person that completed it so utterly. From this Tess and Fletch were born, two people whose profound grief had driven them apart despite their love for each other.

My life has been charmed until recently, with no bereavements or tragedies to speak of. Then half way through 2011 I lost my mother quite unexpectedly. Needless to say I now have more than a passing acquaintance with grief. It’s not the loss of a child but grief doesn’t discriminate and it’s been a long, hard road to trudge.

Giving Tess and Fletch their HEA, even a decade after the tragic events that had marked theirs lives, was vital for me on many fronts.

I hope you root for them as I did during their journey back to each other.

Regards,

Amy

CHAPTER ONE

THICK grass spiked at Tessa King’s bare knees as she sank to the ground beside the tiny, immaculately kept grave. Large trees shaded the cemetery and birdsong was the only noise that broke the drowsy afternoon serenity as she laid the bright yellow daffodils near the miniature marble statue of a kneeling angel.

Grief bloomed in her chest, sharp and fresh, rising in her throat, threatening to choke her. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath, reaching for the headstone as the tsunamilike wave of emotion unbalanced her.

She let some tears escape. Just a few.

No more.

Even on the anniversary of his death she rationed her grief. It was ten years to the day since Ryan had died. Ten years of living life in greyscale.

The memories struggled for release but not even on this day did she allow herself the luxury of remembering too much. She rationed the memories too. His little body squirming against hers, his boyish giggle and that perfect little bow mouth.

The double cowlick that had refused to be tamed.

It was enough.

Tess opened her eyes, the simple inscription she knew as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat, blurring in front of her.

Ryan King.

Aged 18 months.

Gone, and a cloud in our hearts.

She reached for the letters, the smooth marble cool beneath her fingertips. She didn’t let them linger. She wiped at her cheeks, blinked the remaining moisture away.

Enough.

Fletcher King ground his heels into the luxurious carpet of grass, resisting the urge to go to her as she sagged against the headstone. His butt stayed stubbornly planted against the bonnet of his Jag. She’d made it perfectly clear when they’d separated that it had to be a clean break. That she didn’t want to see him or talk to him, and every overture he’d made the first year to keep in touch, to check on her, had been resoundingly rebuffed.

Frankly, after nine years of watching this ritual from afar, he didn’t even know how to approach her. She seemed as distant today as she had for that awful year after Ryan’s death when their marriage had slowly shrivelled and died.

He hadn’t been able to bridge the gap back then and he doubted almost a decade of distance would have improved things.

It didn’t mean he was immune to her grief. Even from this distance the weight of her despair punched him square in the solar plexus. Took him right back to the dreadful day as they’d frantically tried to revive their son, hoping against hope, trying to ignore the portent of doom that had settled over him like a leaden cloak.

His frantic ‘Come on, Ryan, come on!’ still echoed in his dreams all these years later.