In Name Only (A Pine Falls Novel Book 2)

  In Name Only

  A Pine Falls Novel

  Jennifer Peel

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Peel

  All rights reserved.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Becky: Thanks for always believing in me and talking me off the ledge.

  Prologue

  I sat at my desk and stared at the photo of Brock and me at Ariana’s wedding in Hawaii last month. I kept the photo in my top drawer and pulled it out to look at it more often than I should. My fingers brushed over Brock. He looked amazing. His white linen shirt showed off how tan and muscular he was. And that penetrating look he was giving me . . . For the first time, I’d been able to tell he wanted me as much as I wanted him. At least I had thought so.

  That night, we had sneaked away to take a long walk on the beach, just the two of us. The moon and stars were our only lights. While the waves crashed against the shore and washed over our bare feet, all I could think about was how thrilled I was that Brock had taken my hand. Even better, it was as if he never wanted to let go. Not a word was spoken. There seemed to be too much to say, and neither of us knew where to begin. I supposed after fourteen years of keeping it to friends only, it made sense. But actions spoke much louder than words.

  Brock tugged on my hand, making me stop and gaze up at him. He tucked some of my dark, windswept hair behind my ear before brushing his fingers across my bare shoulder. Each touch sent shivers of pleasure down my spine. Then he leaned in, his lips teasing mine, so close but not quite touching. It was a metaphor for our complicated relationship. A line we had never crossed but had tiptoed around for years.

  After several seconds of beautiful torture, Brock closed his eyes. With a loud exhale, his lips crashed into mine. Nothing had ever felt so right. I slid my arms up his chest and around his neck. His lips stayed firm on mine as if he were soaking me in but afraid to taste me. All I wanted to do was devour him, yet I could feel his trepidation, so I had remained still. I wasn’t sure how long we stayed like that, but he broke away from me too soon. He hastily shoved his hands in his shorts pockets, and we walked silently back to the hotel while I tried to make sense of why he’d stopped. Why it seemed we were never meant to move past our friendship. For years, I’d known it was because his career and our country came first to Brock. And there was always the delicate balance of the friendship between me, Brock, and his twin, Brant. Though Brant was sure to marry Jill. Their father would make sure of it, no matter Brant’s opinion on the subject. What was love when you could have a strong political ally?

  No matter Brock’s reasoning, when we’d returned home last month, it was business as usual for us. We’d never spoken of the kiss, though each time we were together, his eyes always seemed to drift toward my mouth. My lips ached to whisper that I was his, if only he would ask me to be. Yet I didn’t have the courage. However, I wasn’t sure if I could take much more of the cat-and-mouse game we’d played for years.

  A knock and a head peeking in my door startled me out of my turbulent thoughts. I shoved the picture under some paperwork on my desk.

  “Hey,” Brock’s deep voice surprised me. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  I blinked a few times, wondering what he was doing here in the middle of the day. I thought he would be in surgery or at his office. “You’re not.” I rearranged some of the papers on my desk to make sure the picture didn’t see the light of day in his presence. “What are you doing here?”

  He walked in and shut the door behind him. His tall, athletic body made my small office seem even smaller. Dr. Brock Holland had a presence to him that made him loom larger.

  Brock approached my desk, clasping his hands.

  I didn’t think I had ever seen him nervous. “Everything all right?” I asked.

  He stared aimlessly at a paper clip on my desk. “I wanted to say goodbye before I left on my joint allied training mission.” Brock was a major in the Army Reserve. As an anesthesiologist, he had treated soldiers and civilians all over the world on the battlefield and on humanitarian missions. This year he was headed to Afghanistan for six weeks. I’m not going to lie; it made me nervous.

  “I thought we were all having dinner tonight?” Meaning our group of friends—Kinsley, Ariana, Jonah, Brant, and probably Jill if she happened to be in town.

  He ran a hand over his dark hair, now cut military short. “We are, but I wanted to talk to you alone.”

  I bit my lip. “Oh.”

  “Dani.” He closed his deep-blue eyes and paused before opening them, his gaze hitting me full force. “I think we should talk about our future when I get back.”

  “Ours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you saying?” I could barely breathe out.

  He flashed me his crooked grin. “That I’m going to miss you and we’ll talk when I get back in a few weeks.” He always played it close to the vest. It was maddening.

  “Maybe I’ll be around,” I teased.

  “I’m counting on it.” He walked around my desk and opened his arms.

  I flew out of my chair and into them. He wrapped me up tight while I soaked in his peppermint-and-spice smell. Minute after minute, I clung to him, memorizing the steady beat of his heart. “Come back to me safe and whole,” I whispered.

  He kissed the top of my head. “I promise.”

  Chapter One

  “It is the price that must be paid,” rang through the chapel during Sunday services. The same chapel I had been married in nearly three weeks ago to the man who sat unnaturally stiff by my side. Brock sat close enough to me so that no one would question the validity of our unholy union, but he kept enough distance so that I would understand exactly where I stood with him. The pastor’s words were more apropos than he would guess. I was paying.

  I dared a glance at my handsome husband, who stared straight forward so he didn’t risk looking my way. His clean-shaven face still bore the marks of his harrowing capture and escape in Afghanistan over two months ago. So much joy and misery had taken place since that time. The cuts above his eye wer
e healing and the bruises had all but faded, but his deep-blue eyes shadowed by a forest of dark lashes spoke of deeper hurts. His tight, strong jawline screamed for me to look anywhere but at him. My gray tear-filled eyes obeyed and fell away.

  I stared down at my lap, which was covered in the most elegant champagne chiffon, willing the tears not to drop. The dress was another reminder of the lie I lived. I had never owned clothes so fine, but any wife of a Holland was expected to look and play her part. My hands, resting upon the expensive fabric, were wrung so tight I could almost see the blood flow through my veins. If my blood spilled out, it would be a welcome relief, easier than the pain I bore now. I would do almost anything to forget, even if for only a moment, the heartache that ensconced us. But . . . my hands unfolded and rested upon the reason the man I loved despised me. A reason so precious I would do anything to protect it—even live in the very hell I currently found myself in.

  My eyes fluttered up and landed on the intricately carved wooden altar where the pastor in traditional white robes orated so eloquently about sacrifice. Light filtered in behind him through the stained glass window depicting a dove flying out of a starburst. Ariana, my older sister, had created it. Her beautiful work of art was casting dancing colors, just like it had on the day Brock and I stood before the pastor to become man and wife in name only. The pastor, unbeknownst to him, preached a sermon that paralleled the life Brock and I had begrudgingly agreed upon. Brock’s sacrifice was his name. Mine was him.

  The man who’d brokered the deal sat on my other side, as if to make sure I played my part exactly how he had scripted it out. John Holland, Brock’s father, ex-senator, CEO/owner of Holland Industries, and devil incarnate. He flashed me his gleaming smile as he sat in a three-piece suit that was as dark as his soul. It was his cold eyes, though, that sent shivers down me. His green eyes bore secret agendas. “Lovely service,” he whispered.

  I couldn’t bring myself to respond to him. He knew nothing of light, God, or what real sacrifice was. Instead, my gaze turned up to the magnificent ceiling painted with gold leaves. Once upon a time I had thought it heavenly. Today it felt as if it were a pavilion that relentlessly prevented God’s love and grace from showering me. Perhaps this was my penance for the night that had brought me to my knees. The night where I had learned that I would have to live in a world without Brock. I had begged God for some solace, even if it was only to tell me why Brock had to die. The world needed good men like him, honorable and true. When the answer hadn’t come and darkness shrouded me, my phone had rung. It was a call I never should have answered. But how could I have known it would lead into the inferno I burned in now?

  I shifted in the wooden pew, trying to get comfortable, but waves of nausea that I couldn’t manifest yet washed over me like a tidal wave, making my stomach toss and turn. Again, I prayed for comfort that I knew wouldn’t come. To make it worse, Brock remained ice cold by my side.

  The only bit of respite came from Brant, who covertly flashed me a look of remorse from where he sat a few seats down. We were living the same lie together to protect the secret I carried. His forced contribution was marrying someone he didn’t love.

  I dared a glance at Jill, Brant’s fiancée. The demure-looking woman with muted brown hair and doe-brown eyes beamed up at Brant. So much hope and longing lived in her countenance. The pair looked mismatched. Brant—like his identical twin, Brock—was stately with striking features. He overshadowed his bride-to-be. I think deep down Jill knew that Brant didn’t love her. That their marriage was born out of their fathers’ association. It was a political dream. Jill had the right pedigree and would make a proper senator’s wife, not only because of her political connections but because she was a savvy businesswoman in her own regard. Not savvy enough, though, to walk away. I think she thought Brant would learn to love her the way she loved him. I hoped for her sake she was right. That someone would be spared in all the wreckage. The innocent smile she wore, under the protection of Brant’s arm, while fondly staring at the four-carat ring heavily weighing down her dainty finger, made me wither in shame. I desperately wanted to scream at Jill to run now while she could. I rubbed my abdomen and kept my mouth shut.

  The service ended, and Brock jumped up so quickly you would hardly know he had been severely injured weeks ago. As for me, I longed to melt into the hard pew, but John snaked his arm around me. To any onlooker it would seem as if I had an affectionate father-in-law. If only they knew.

  “Dear daughter,” John hissed in my ear, “you should join your husband and smile more. You’re such a beautiful girl.” His words were meant to sound sweet, but I heard the threat in them. The Holland name was a Colorado treasure, and John was willing to do whatever it took to keep it that way. He’d bred Brant to continue his legacy as a senator, while Brock was meant to serve his country in other ways: first as a commissioned officer and military doctor, then as a private practitioner while still serving in the Reserve. Each brother dutifully played his part, which was all that mattered to the elder Holland. Now I was meant to play mine.

  If I didn’t follow orders, John would not only bury the secret I carried in the deepest hole possible, he would personally be willing to dig it. His wealth and power would buy him the means to get away with it. I’m not talking about murder. But after John was done ruining your reputation, ostracizing you from all those you loved, and obliterating your financial means, some would consider death a happy alternative. Unfortunately, my family and I have some ammo in our pasts he would be happy to use to shoot us all with, especially me.

  I wasn’t sure Brock knew exactly what his father was capable of. John had warned me not to disclose the details of the little chat he’d had with me to convince me I should marry his son. Regardless, Brock always saw the “good” in what his father was trying to accomplish, so now he filled the role of martyr. As for me, I was just another pawn on John’s chessboard of life, where somehow no matter what his move was, it always resulted in checkmate. I felt like the queen cowering alone in the corner on my tiny square, with no moves remaining other than to stand.

  John stood when I did and walked past me, giving me a sardonic grin before whispering in his son’s ear.

  A flush of red swept from Brock’s brow down his neck. In a robotic move, Brock put his rigid arm around me. No doubt on John’s suggestion. After all, John only wanted to see us happy. According to the Holland patriarch, we deserved to be together after all the years of dancing around our feelings. In reality, all he cared about was appearances and me keeping my mouth shut. John was willing to sacrifice one son’s happiness so the other son could carry on the political torch. He was salivating at the thought of Brant not only being a senator but making a run for the Oval Office someday.

  Brock’s cold hand made as little contact as it could with the bare skin on my arm. His arm refused to relax across my back. The security his touch used to give was now replaced with paralyzing vulnerability. I could feel the revulsion seep through his suit coat. His words echoed in my mind: “My every thought was returning to you. For you, I survived. But you didn’t even have the decency to wait until I was buried before you fell into my brother’s arms.” Those words haunted me every second of every day. I didn’t blame him for hating me. If I could go back and change what had happened that night, I wouldn’t have knocked on Brant’s door. Because of that night, I have suffered the death of Brock twice; once physically, now emotionally. The latter was exponentially worse.

  The only kindness I was granted came from my mother-in-law, Sheridan. She beamed at Brock and me. Her blue eyes were the exact shade of my husband’s, but much warmer than his had been since his return. She still wore her dark blonde dyed hair long. A gentleness radiated from her surgically enhanced, unnaturally smooth skin. How the sweet woman ever ended up with the shrewd John I would never know. Even so, to her, the sun rose and set with her husband. I don’t think she had any idea how calculating and manipulative he was. To her, he was the man who adored her an
d saw to her every need and want. Her family was everything to her, and she had welcomed me with open arms, offering to be the mother I never had. I longed to take her up on it, yet how could I, knowing she would rescind the offer if she knew the truth?

  I forced myself to return Sheridan’s smile, all while silently praying that God would forgive me for making a mockery out of marriage and family. I begged for him to know my heart. If not for my child, I would have never married Brock, at least not under these circumstances. I prayed harder.

  Sheridan joined us and kissed my cheek. “Dani, darling, I didn’t get to tell you how stunning you look today. The champagne plays so well against your olive skin.” She admired my curled hair. “And that beautiful ebony hair of yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  She gave me a gentle squeeze. “I know I keep saying this, but I’m thrilled Brock finally came to his senses and made you part of the family. I knew it was only a matter of time.” She grabbed a reluctant Brock and drew him closer to me. “Remember what I told you the first time you brought Dani to the house all those years ago?” she asked, not knowing neither of us would enjoy the trip down memory lane. That fond moment in time was now tainted with the present. However, it didn’t stop me from thinking about how in awe I had been of their palatial home that was nestled in the mountains of Carrington Cove. Still, my wonderment had nothing on how grateful I had been to Sheridan Holland for looking past the fact that I was living off student loans and had a colorful past. All she saw before her that day as we sat in their sunroom together, talking about my goals and how proud I was that I had earned an A in anatomy, was the woman I was striving to be.

  I shook myself out of my thoughts and dared a glance at Brock. He was running his scarred hand—marks left from trying to fight off his captives—over his hair, which was growing out of the military cut. He looked handsome in any haircut, but I loved it when it was long enough to see his natural wave. Brock kept swallowing down what he really wanted to say, which was that he’d rather hear anything other than what his mother thought of me. Brock and I agreed once again. No need to keep shoving the knife farther into my heart and Brock’s back.