Behind The Proposal novel Chapter 43

While he was making her a cup of tea and slice of toast, Jasmine came bounding out of her room, full of energy. He settled her in front of the television with her own piece of toast, hoping to distract her long enough so he could go back and talk to Sophie. He sat down on the bed next to his wife and her box of tissues, handing her the cup of tea.

"I need you to talk to me, Soph," Tom begged as calmly as he could. "I'm just trying to understand so I can help you."

"There's nothing you can do," she hung her head and her eyes closed as she wiped them with her fingers. He hated seeing her so sad. He'd do anything to make her smile.

"Let me try." He pulled her closer and let her snuggle up against his chest.

Sophie closed her eyes and relaxed into his embrace as if she'd given up all fight. "That's just the way they've always been. My childhood wasn't that bad. I had everything I ever needed. I had a roof over my head, clean clothes and toys and food on the table. I had a lot more than a lot of kids."

"Except love. Kids need love, Soph," he pointed out. He knew that much about raising kids.

"I got that from Kim," she shrugged and smiled. "And I've done alright for myself. I'm not screwing Jasmine up too much. I hope."

He put a hand to her face, caressing her cheek. "You're an amazing person, and a wonderful Mum, Soph, Jasmine is very lucky to have you."

She swallowed hard, her eyes welling with tears, which she blinked away. "Thanks."

He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers trying to convey his feelings for her. He cared for her, more than he'd cared for anyone. His heart ached for the little blonde haired girl who'd probably bent over backwards trying to please her family, waiting for even a scrap of love. She'd been treated appallingly by the very people that were supposed to love her unconditionally.

It was then that he realised he wasn't any better. He'd married her simply because he'd needed a wife. Guilt ate at him. He'd gone and done the exact same thing her parents had done - he was supposed to love her unconditionally, but he didn't love her. He never would have suggested marriage if he'd known all of this before, but it was too late now. They were married. She was his wife. So for better or worse, he'd stick with her until the day he died. If for no other reason than to show her she could rely on someone. He would make damned sure that she never found out the real reason why he'd rushed into marriage. Maybe when they'd been married fifty years and had grandkids running around he might consider telling her, but not a day before that.

Tom looked up and met her eyes. "Don't worry about the mess, we'll clean up. Once I figure out what I'm doing," he muttered as he turned back to the recipe book.

"Here, let me help," she said as she washed her hands in the sink. She turned to him and he stood there, hands on hips, glaring at her, with a white powdery smudge across his cheek.

"Sophie, get out of this kitchen before I pick you up and remove you myself," he ordered.

"But-" she said and started coughing again. It was just a cough, she could still cook. She'd wear gloves. Besides, he could not cook. Lunch would be a disaster and her parents would hold her responsible. Why did they have to be so difficult? She felt awful. She nearly sobbed, but forced herself to remain calm. She could do this.

He shook his head as he took her arm and dragged her to the other side of the bench. "No buts. I'll lock you in the bedroom if I have to," he glared at her in warning. He was really serious, and if she was honest, she kind of liked that he'd just taken control like that. Plus it meant she didn't have to stand there when she was struggling to stay upright. He'd taken control all week, in fact. Tom had worked from home most of the week while she'd been laid up in bed with a nasty chest infection.