“I don’t know.”

The words dropped between them. Coldness seeped into her skin and her soul. She couldn’t blame him. She couldn’t even be mad. Morgan had held on to the last moment, but he’d already made his choice. And though she understood, there was still a part deep down that felt betrayed because he didn’t love her enough.

“Morgan—”

She bit her lip hard and forced a wavering smile. “No, don’t. You think I don’t understand? I do. I don’t blame you, either. I just—I just need to be alone right now.”

“I don’t want to leave like this.”

She backed away from him, needing the distance. “We both need some time apart, Cal. It’s been a hell of a week, and I need to organize for the Rosenthals’ arrival. I’ll take a rain check on dinner. Can you explain to Tristan and Dalton?”

“Yes. I still think we should—”

“I have to go.” Morgan hurried out of the house like ghosts were chasing her. And they were. The ghosts of the past, and the ghosts of regrets. But Morgan had learned early not to play that game, and damned if she was going to begin thinking less of herself just because Cal couldn’t handle it.

She was worth more than that.

Still, she cried all the way to the hotel.

Cal fumbled for his good bottle of bourbon and poured a quarter of a glass. Considered. Then poured more till it hit the halfway line.

He needed every drop.

Gandalf and Balin danced around, waiting for their treat, so he got two out but didn’t have the heart to wait till Gandalf played dead. It reminded him too much of Morgan. The dogs whimpered a bit as he headed outside but then dragged their treats to their beds. Hunger always trumped playtime with canines.

He carried his drink out to the front porch and slumped in the rocker. He felt like shit. Worse than shit. He’d been so eager to spend the night with her and plan a future. Dreams of a life with Morgan spun in his head like fluffy cotton candy, fogging reality and a hard truth he needed to figure out.

He’d just left her. She’d shared this shattering news with him about her illness and losing her chance to bear children. She’d told him with her chin up and a glittering resolve in her ocean-blue eyes. God, she was so strong and brave and beautiful. And he’d walked away because in one flash of a moment, he’d been terrified she might be right.

Cal never thought about the future with a woman because he was too busy. When he did, it was misty fragments of a general scene that every person had. A wife. Children. A house. Careers. Family. Dogs.

There were never any specifics. When Morgan came into his life, everything narrowed down to a tiny pinpoint of light. Suddenly he had a focus, because he was positive he’d be spending his life with her. A gut instinct and driving need beat through this body and soul, guiding him to his own personal true north.

But there may not be any children in that future. Was he okay making that choice? Would there be regrets?

“Hey. Where’s Morgan? When’s dinner?”

He glared at Dalton. “Go away. She’s not here, and you’re not getting dinner.”

“Bad day? I’ll join you; let me get a beer.”

“Would rather be alone right now, thanks anyway.” Dalton disappeared and returned with a Heineken, dropping into the chair beside him. “I told you I want to be alone.”

“Tough shit. It’s my house, too. Did you cancel because tomorrow is the big reveal?”

Cal simmered in brooding silence. He had a lot to think about and wasn’t in the mood for banter with his brother.

“Uh-oh. Did you guys have a fight? You have that look on your face men get when being dissed by their woman.”

Another voice joined Dalton’s, and Cal groaned. “Hey, where’s dinner? Where’s Morgan?”

“We’re out here, Tristan!” Dalton called. “Grab your wine and join us. Cal got into a fight with Morgan.”

“Son of a bitch,” Cal growled. “When did the words leave me alone become code for a chat? I fucking hate heart-to-heart chats.”

“Yeah, so do I, but sometimes you need them,” Dalton said.

Tristan came out onto the porch and took the third seat. Swirled the burgundy liquid in his crystal glass. Then stuck his nose in the glass to take an appreciative sniff before trying a sip. The gesture annoyed the crap out of Cal. “Why do you have to engage in foreplay with your liquor? It’s ridiculous.”

“Not if you’re a wine connoisseur,” Tristan said mildly. “What was your fight about? It would probably be best if you just apologized. Then maybe we can save dinner. Morgan said she was making stuffed pork chops.”

“For God’s sake, this isn’t an intervention. Morgan decided she had work to do to get ready for the Rosenthals and decided to get room service. No big deal. No fight. Let’s move on.”

Tristan and Dalton shared a glance. “Lie,” Dalton announced. “You look ripped up. Just tell us, Cal. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Fuck. You’re such a pain in my ass.” Temper and frustration snapped through his body, making his fists curl. God, he wanted a fight. A bruising, exhausting, messy, bloody fistfight to get out all this aggression. “Fine. I found something out tonight that changed things. She can’t have children.”

Tristan frowned. “What do you mean? She’s infertile? Or she doesn’t want kids?”

Cal ground his teeth. “She had cervical cancer when she was eighteen. They had to give her a hysterectomy.”