Healing Mr. Ashford

Chapter Seven: Convalescence

NATALIA GEORGETTE

I had never been to Portugal before, and perhaps that was exactly why I chose it.

I wanted a place where nobody knew my name, where I could walk into a café alone without someone asking about my wedding, my fiancé, or the woman who had come into my clinic carrying his child.

Most of all, I wanted somewhere far enough from Masbate that I could wake up without remembering what had happened.

It had been almost a week since Leila came to my apartment. I still remembered the way she had cried. The way she had begged me. The way my entire understanding of my relationship with Ethan had changed with one sentence.

Ethan is the father of my child.

I had spent the first two days barely sleeping. The next two pretending I was fine. By the time I booked the flight, I wasn't even sure whether I was running away from Ethan or from the humiliation of realizing how little I had known about my own relationship.

I told everyone I needed a long vacation.

That wasn't a lie.

I simply left out the part where I desperately needed to breathe without feeling like something was sitting on my chest.

Portugal gave me exactly that.

For the first few days, I walked without a destination. I drank coffee in places where no one knew me, took pictures of streets I couldn't pronounce, and sat for long stretches just watching people pass by.

It was strangely comforting because nobody here knew I was supposed to be getting married, nobody cared that my fiancé had cheated on me, and nobody knew I was a doctor. I was simply Natalia, and for the first time in days, that felt like enough.

On my fourth morning, I decided to spend the afternoon in Sintra.

I had barely finished taking a picture of the view when I heard someone behind me.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I smiled faintly without turning around.

"It is."

"Although I think you're looking at the wrong thing."

I was looking at the view when a familiar voice came from behind me, low and unmistakable. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was, but I did anyway, slowly, almost afraid that my mind was playing tricks on me. And when I finally saw him standing there, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it or ask him what the hell he was doing in Portugal.

Maximo stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, wearing the same effortless expression that had been getting increasingly difficult for me to ignore.

For several seconds, I simply stared at him.

"What are you doing here?"

He looked around.

"Apparently, sightseeing."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Don't."

He laughed softly.

"I missed you too."

"I didn't say I missed you."

"You didn't have to."

I looked away, trying to hide the smile that threatened to appear.

"You followed me."

"I happened to be here."

"Of all places?"

"Portugal is not exactly a small country, Doctor."

"Sintra isn't exactly a small town either."

He shrugged.

"Maybe I got lucky."

I folded my arms.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"No."

At least he was honest.

I looked at him again.

There was something different about seeing him here. Maybe it was because he wasn't sitting across from me in my clinic, where I could hide behind a desk and a medical chart. Here, there was nothing between us except a few feet of stone pavement and the things neither of us had said.

"Why did you come?"

His expression softened.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

The answer caught me off guard.

I looked away.

"I am."

"Are you?"

I didn't answer immediately.

I have become good at saying I'm fine lately. I said it to my mother, to Liza, and most often, to myself. I kept repeating it until it almost sounded true, even when I knew my heart was still breaking.

"I'm getting there," I finally admitted.

He nodded as though that was enough. He didn't ask about Ethan or what had happened, and he didn't try to tell me that he had been right all along. He simply stood beside me, quietly taking in the view. Somehow, having him there without demanding anything from me made it easier to breathe.

We spent the rest of the afternoon together.

It wasn't planned. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

We walked through the old streets, stopped for coffee, and argued over which pastry was better. He teased me for taking too many pictures, and I reminded him that not everyone had spent the last eight years traveling abroad.

He laughed, and I found myself smiling with him.

I hadn't heard that kind of laugh from him in years, not the easy, unguarded one that made me forget for a moment why I had come all the way to Portugal. There were moments when I could actually lose myself in his company and forget everything that had happened in Masbate. Then, inevitably, the memories would find their way back, reminding me why I had needed to leave in the first place.

During dinner, he finally asked.

"Are you going back soon?"

I stared at my glass.

"I don't know."

"Do you want to?"

"Not yet."

He nodded.

"I understand."

I looked at him.

"Do you?"

"I think you need somewhere you can think without everyone telling you what you should do."

That was painfully accurate, so I gave him a small smile.

"You sound like a therapist."

"I've been spending a lot of time around doctors."

I laughed, and he smiled back.

The silence that followed didn't feel awkward at all. If anything, there was something strangely intimate about simply sitting there with him, neither of us feeling the need to fill the space between us. I lowered my gaze to my hands, suddenly too aware of how close he was.

"I thought I knew him."

Maximo didn't ask who.

He had known all along.

"I thought I knew the man I was going to marry," I continued quietly. "I knew his habits, his temper, the way he took his coffee. I knew how he looked when he was stressed and what he did when he was worried. I know everything."

My throat tightened as I forced myself to continue.

"And somehow, I didn't know the most important thing."

Maximo remained quiet.

"I don't even know which part hurts more," I admitted. "What he did, or the fact that I trusted him enough to never think he was capable of it."

He reached for my hand but stopped, waiting for me to decide. I placed mine over his, and his fingers gently closed around it.

"You don't have to figure everything out tonight."

"I know."

"You don't have to forgive him either."

"I know."

"And you definitely don't have to pretend you're okay."

I looked at him.

"You're making that one difficult."

"Good."

A small laugh escaped me, and for the first time in days, it felt genuine.

When we left the restaurant, we walked side by side beneath the cool night air. I knew I should say goodnight, but I kept walking, quietly hoping he wouldn't be the one to say it first.

"You know," I said, "you really didn't have to come all the way here."

"I know."

"Then why did you?" My question stopped him.

I took another step before realizing he wasn't beside me anymore.

When I turned, he was looking at me.

"Because you left without saying goodbye."

I stared at him.

"I was your patient."

"You were."

"And you followed your doctor across the world?"

"Technically, I followed Tali."

My heart gave a strange, uncomfortable beat. Tali had been my nickname in college, the same name I had written as the sender on every letter I once sent him. Hearing him say it now brought back a part of me I had spent years trying to forget.

I looked away.

"That's not much better."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

He moved closer, not quite touching me, but near enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. The small distance between us suddenly felt far more noticeable than it should have, and I became painfully aware of how quiet the night had become.

"I know you're hurt," he said quietly. "And I know I'm probably the last person you should be around right now considering our history back on my graduation day."

He recognized me...

"You are." Those were the only words that slipped from my lips as the realization finally sank in.

His lips curved.

"Still, you haven't asked me to leave."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He was right. I hadn't asked him to leave, not once. He took another step toward me, close enough that I could have moved away if I wanted to, but I didn't.

His eyes searched my face, waiting for something I wasn't sure I was ready to give him.

“I don't want you to be someone's replacement,” I whispered.

“I won't be.”

"Ethan just broke my heart."

"I know."

"And I'm still trying to understand what happened."

"I know."

"Then don't make this harder."

His expression softened.

"I'm not here to make anything harder for you."

I looked at him.

"Then what are you doing?"

He smiled.

“Trying to make one thing easier.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“Claiming what was mine to begin with.”

My brows pulled together. “What?”

He held my gaze. “He was the replacement. Because your heart originally belonged to me, didn't it?”

I almost laughed.

“Are you crazy? That was a long time ago.”

“So, I'm wrong?”

The question caught me off guard. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then his gaze dropped to my lips before slowly returning to my eyes.

I noticed, and judging by the faint curve of his mouth, he knew I did.

My pulse began to race as he lifted a hand, stopping just beside my cheek. He didn't touch me. He simply waited, leaving the choice entirely up to me.

“You're still waiting,” I whispered.

“I'm giving you the chance to tell me no.”

I looked at him and thought about Ethan, the wedding that would never happen, and everything I had left behind in Masbate. Then I remembered the way my heart used to race whenever Maximo came near.

Standing this close to him, my heart was beating the same way again, only twice as hard, as if eight years had only buried the feeling deeper. Judging from my heartbeat, I knew he was right, that Ethan was my replacement all along to forget him...yet I failed.

So I closed the distance.

His hand touched my cheek before he leaned down, giving me one last chance to pull away, but it was too late. His lips met mine softly, and for those few seconds, I forgot everything except the feeling I had once tried so hard to forget.

When we pulled apart, I couldn't bring myself to look at him.

“You know,” he murmured, “you helped me when I thought something was wrong with me.”

I slowly lifted my eyes to his.

His thumb brushed gently across my cheek.

“You healed my erection.”

I stared at him in disbelief before a laugh escaped me.

“That is probably the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

He laughed with me, then his expression softened.

“Let me heal your broken heart.”

Before I could answer, he leaned down and kissed me again.