Daddy Woke Up Married

Paige leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I didn’t give him amnesia.”

“You told me to act like his wife.”

“You are his wife.”

“Legally.”

“Well, legally you signed the admission papers to the hospital. You authorized treatment. You told 911 your husband fell off the roof. You established yourself as the man’s wife in just about every way a woman can.” Her friend’s voice was relentless, refusing to let her deny anything.

Swallowing, Emily leaned against the bookshelf filled with medical references, needing the solid support her world had lost. “What can I do? How do I get out of this?”

Paige’s expression softened with sympathy and understanding—and a little mischief. “I don’t know. But I’ve seen how attentive he can be. Are you sure you want the old Nick back?”

Chapter Three (#ulink_d3fcec33-f56d-5953-88e7-619c092869da)

Are you sure you want the old Nick back?

Muttering beneath her breath, Emily stopped at the door of Nick’s apartment and searched her purse for the key. Trust Paige to raise doubts where none should exist. And the rest of their conversation hadn’t helped, either.

There’s never been anything between us except friendship. I don’t want to lose that.

Even for something better?

Better?

As in love? Emily shook her head, remembering Paige’s earnest question. What a joke. After her first shot at romantic marriage, she knew friendship was the preferable choice.

Nick was always there when she needed him—he’d even come back from a bridge-building project in South America when she’d called and asked if he knew anyone who could break Kevin’s kneecaps. Of course, she hadn’t really been serious about the kneecaps, but he’d come back, anyway, to make sure she stayed out of jail…and that she filed for divorce.

Though when Nick had learned everything, he’d blown a gasket and almost ended up with his own assault charge. Emily shivered as she remember the cold rage in his eyes and the way he’d stood between her and Kevin on the courthouse steps…Kevin and his smarmy, “Sorry ‘bout things, babe, can’t we try again?”

Try again? He hadn’t tried in the first place, he’d just wanted her to come back to the advertising firm where they’d both worked and to keep giving him her ideas.

“Hello, gorgeous,” a man’s voice said from behind her. “I think Nick’s out of town, but I’m available.”

Another smarmy type. Yuck.

“I’m not.” She found the key and jammed it into the lock before turning so that her full profile was visible. The slick yuppie’s eyes widened as he observed her tummy. He stuttered an apology and speedily backed into his own apartment.

“Good,” Emily muttered. She swung the door open and wrinkled her nose. She always expected Nick’s place to smell like Seattle—a kind of piney, salty fragrance, mixed with the inevitable scent of a city. But it didn’t It just smelled dead. Probably because he was out of town so much of the time.

She preferred Crockett, which clung to the western edge of Puget Sound like a barnacle in the midst of a sprawling sea of tide pools. No one ever paid much attention to Crockett, which was fine, because Crockett didn’t care. Who needed rising real estate costs, minimalls and factory outlet stores? You could get all that in Seattle, which was only a short drive and ferry ride away.

The specialist had arrived early that morning, clucked and examined Nick to the absolute limit of his annoyance. The doctor had decided there wasn’t anything organically wrong causing the memory block, concurring with the selective amnesia theory. But he fancied things up by calling it “dissociative amnesia.” And, without necessarily agreeing with Paige Wescott’s treatment, he’d said they would have to continue letting Nick believe he had a typical marriage for the time being. Which didn’t surprise Emily, since the good doctor obviously had some trouble believing the truth himself.

Apparently amnesia was unpredictable and every case was different. Nobody completely agreed on how to treat the condition, but everybody was fascinated by it.

“Blast,” she muttered as she began gathering Nick’s belongings.

Clothes for Nick weren’t a big problem. He subscribed to a style best described as “casual” and “more casual.” She stuffed a bunch of jeans, shirts and underwear into a duffel bag. Those—with the clothing he always kept in Crockett—would be plenty.