How To Mend A Broken Heart

A lump rose in his throat, tears needled and stung his eyes and he squeezed them tightly shut. He’d already cried a river or two; hell, he was probably up to an ocean by now, but he couldn’t afford to succumb today.

He was here on a mission.

He needed his wife back.

Tess put one foot in front of the other on autopilot as she made her way to her car. Whether it was because of the dark swirl of emotions or the jet-lag, she didn’t see him or at least register the identity of the tall, broad man leaning against the car parked in front of her rental until she was two metres away.

Then, as her belly did that almost forgotten somersault and her breath hitched in the same way it used to, she wondered why the hell not. She may not have been interested in a man in ten years but she obviously wasn’t totally dead inside.

And Fletcher King in dark trousers and a business shirt that had been rolled up to the elbows and undone at the throat was still an incredibly impressive man.

In fact, if anything, the years had honed him into an even more spectacular specimen.

He looked broader across the shoulders. Leaner at the hips. There were streaks of grey at his temples and where his dark, wavy hair met sculpted cheekbones. His three-day growth, black as midnight last time she’d seen it, was lightly peppered with salt. There were interesting lines around his tired-looking eyes, which were the silvery-green colour of wattle leaves.

Did he, too, still have trouble sleeping?

The indentations around his mouth, which became dimples when he laughed, were deeper. Even his mouth seemed fuller—sexier. His lips parted slightly and she caught a glimpse of his still-perfect teeth.

‘Hello, Tessa.’

Tess was surprised by the prickle of awareness as his soft voice rumbled across the void between them. The latent attraction was unexpected. She was so used to locking down anything that had an emotional impact on her she was amazed she could still feel a pull at all.

But this was Fletch.

‘Fletcher.’ So much lay unsaid between them she didn’t know where to start. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Fletch nodded, stifled by their formality. ‘How have you been?’

She shrugged. ‘Fine.’

Fletch suppressed a snort. Hardly. Each year she seemed to have faded away a little more. Gone were those curves that had driven him to distraction. There were only angles now. The legs sticking out of her above-knee, cargo-style pants were slender, her collar bones visible through the V-opening of her modest T-shirt were like coat hangers.

‘You’ve got very thin.’

She shrugged again. ‘Yes.’ Tess ate as a matter of survival. Her pleasure in it had been sucked away with all the other things that had once brought her joy.

He regarded her for a moment. She was still a striking woman despite the angles. And the uber-short hairstyle. She’d cut it some time in that first year after they’d separated. She’d once had long white-blonde hair that had flowed down her back and formed a perfect curtain around them when they’d been making love. He’d spent hours stroking it, wrapping it around his hands and watching the light turn it incandescent as it had slowly sifted through his fingers.

It was darker blonde now, more honey than snow—a direct consequence of moving far away from the sunshine of Brisbane to the drizzly English countryside. It was cropped closely to her head, the back and sides razored severely in. The slightly longer locks on top were brushed over from a side parting, blending in with the jagged edges.

His sister had called it minimalist. He’d preferred the term butchered.

It did, however, draw attention to her amber eyes. They sat large in her spare, make-up-less face, dominating prominent cheekbones that fell away to catwalk-model hollows. They looked at him now, shadows playing in their sherry depths.

Her composure reached across the space between them and squeezed his gut hard. She projected calm detachment but he knew her well enough, despite their time apart, to see beyond. There was a fragility about her he’d have not thought possible a decade ago.

The impact of it rattled the shackles around his heart.

Tess weathered his probing gaze, waiting for him to say something more. Finally she could bear the silence no longer. She cleared her throat. ‘I have to go.’

Fletch’s gaze was drawn to her mouth. Her wide, full lips were devoid of any cosmetic enhancement, just as he remembered them. The same mouth he must have kissed a thousand times. That had travelled over every inch of his body. The same mouth that had desperately tried to breathe life into Ryan, that had begged a God she’d never believed in to spare their son.

Tess took a step towards her car. ‘I have to go,’ she repeated.

Fletch blocked her path, gently snagging her wrist. ‘Could we talk?’

Tessa recoiled from his hold as if she’d been zapped, crossing her arms across her chest. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘It’s been nine years, Tess. You think we have nothing to say to each other?’

Tess bit her lip. Nothing that hadn’t been said already—ad nauseam.

Fletch glanced at her white-knuckled grip as her fingernails dug into the flesh of her bare biceps. Her wedding ring, his grandmother’s ring, snagged his attention. ‘You still wear your wedding ring.’

Tess, surprised by the sudden direction the conversation had taken, looked down at it. The rose-gold band with its engraved floral pattern, thinned with age and wear, hung loosely on her finger, only her knuckle preventing it from sliding off. She absently twisted it around with her thumb a few times before returning her attention to him.

‘Yes.’ She wasn’t going to tell him it was her deterrent against unwanted advances from men. She glanced at his bare left hand. ‘You don’t.’

Fletcher glanced at his hand. It had taken a year after the divorce to take it off yet sometimes he was still surprised by its absence. The white tan line that had remained after he’d removed it had long since faded.

‘No.’ It had got to the stage where he hadn’t been able to bear the memories it had evoked.

Tess nodded. What had she expected? That he would choose to hide behind his as she had hers? That grief would torpedo his libido as it had hers?

Tess dropped her arms to her sides. ‘I really have to go.’

Fletch held up his hands. ‘I just need a minute, please.’

She felt exasperation bubble in her chest. In less than twenty-four hours she’d be back on a plane heading to London. The same as last year. The same as the last nine years. Why had he chosen to complicate things now?

‘What do you want, Fletch?’ What could he possibly want to say to her after all this time? After all these years of silence? Silence they’d both agreed on despite his lapses early in their separation.

Fletch blinked as her familiar name for him finally slipped from her lips to claw at his gut. ‘It’s my mother … she’s unwell. She’s been asking for you.’

Tess felt her stomach drop as concern for her ex-mother-in-law caused her heart to leap in her chest. Fletch looked so grim. ‘Is she …? What’s wrong with her? What happened?’

‘She has Alzheimer’s.’

Tessa gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. ‘Oh, Fletch …’ She took a step towards him, their baggage momentarily forgotten, her other hand reaching for him.

‘That’s terrible.’ Her hand settled against his arm, her fingers on the sleeve of his business shirt, her palm against the corded muscles of his tanned forearm. ‘Is it … Is she bad?’

Jean King was one of the sharpest women Tess had ever met. She was funny, witty, insightful and supersmart. Tess’s mother had died when she’d been eight and Jean had filled a very deep void. They’d been close right from the get-go and Jean had been her anchor—their anchor—in the dreadful months that had followed Ryan’s death. Even when she and Fletch had separated and then divorced, Jean had been there for her.

Fletch nodded. ‘She’s deteriorated in the last couple of months.’

‘When … How long has she had it for?’