A Previous Engagement by Stephanie Haddad Page A

the night. He tiptoed out of the room and onto the landing, where I sat pretending to read an old issue of Cosmo, stretched out across the chaise lounge. I looked up from a tell-all article on date rape drugs—don’t ask me why I read these things, I just can’t help myself—and met Christian’s eyes.
     
    He was clearly more uncomfortable now that we were alone, nodding curtly before making his way downstairs. That was it; he just left me up there like I was the maid or something.
     
    I wanted to yell, but obviously couldn’t if I wanted Riley to stay asleep, so I launched a heated whisper after him. “Christian!” The descending footsteps stopped.
     
    “What?” he whispered back.
     
    “I want to talk to you.”
     
    “Not now, Tessie. The game’s on.”
     
    “Screw the game.” And the whispering. I was mad enough for full volume talking at that point. “I’m coming downstairs and we’re talking this out.” I tossed aside the magazine and booked it across the hardwood floor to the top of the stairs, where my socked feet desperately attempted to stay underneath me. The Petersons had apparently just waxed the floors, making socks an unwise footwear choice. Christian’s head jerked up just as I slid past the staircase and into the wall. Honestly, one person should not get injured this often. I clung to the wall and breathed for a few moments. When I was confident I could make it to the banister, I tried to turn towards him. Bad idea.
     
    Christian took the stairs two at a time to catch me in mid-air, preventing my fall to death. “For Christ’s sake, Tessie.” Irritated, and yet still kind enough to save my life, he carried me down the stairs over his shoulder. As I hung there, jostling with every step, I thought about how it felt to be a sack of potatoes. Or to be hit over the head with a club and carried back to some caveman’s—um—cave back in the early days of man. Although my rescuer’s angry grunts might have added to the latter scenario, I related best to the potatoes as I dangled there.
     
    Back downstairs, safe and sound, Christian plopped me onto the couch. He pulled my socks off by the toes. “There. You know you can’t walk around this place in socks. How many times have I warned you about that?” he said, still fuming. “You could have killed yourself up there.”
     
    “Sorry.” I pulled my naked feet up underneath me and tried not to cry. One sniffle and the dam broke. I started bawling, my thoughts racing about what could have happened if I’d been carrying Riley or if Christian hadn’t been right there. Kendra and Grant would have come home to find me in a heap of broken bones and blood at the bottom of the stairs. She would have screamed, maybe passed out, totally devastated. Not saying I’m some amazing person, but I don’t think Kendra would handle it well if I died in her house while watching her son. Mad or not, Christian probably would have missed me too.
     
    I sobbed some more, embarrassed by my wimpy reaction. Christian offered me a box of tissues. As I blew my nose, he sat down next to me on the couch and pulled me against him. The fall shook me up, but that wasn’t the only thing I had to cry about. After a few minutes, I realized the backlogged tears of one stressful and hellish week were springing forth. Not having Christian around for all those days was an unpleasant experience I didn’t want to repeat.
     
    “I’m sorry,” I choked out, unable to put together any additional words. “I’m so, so sorry. Sorry.”
     
    “Shhhh, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispered into my hair. He squeezed me against him, his scent mingling with the air around my nose. I would have breathed it in deeply if I could, but the sobs kept coming.
     
    “Why—are—you—so—mad—at—me?” I finally choked it all out, and with all the words in the right order. “I’m—so—sorry—Christian.”
     
    He stiffened, his arm dropped from my shoulder. “Let’s