Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“We should do this again soon,” she tells Nicole, kissing her cheek. “Next time, bring Logan. We can throw some burgers on the barbecue.” She looks at me. “Right, Sav?”
“We’ll see,” I say, my smile tight.
I know what she’s trying to do, and it’s not going to work. She’s not going to trick me out of my shell by inviting people and forcing me to socialize.
Logan holds on to Nicole’s wrist that’s draped over his shoulder and uses his free hand to shake mine. “Thanks for taking care of my wife. I don’t see her like this often. When she goes all out like that, she’s close to burnout.” He adds with affection, “Stubborn woman won’t listen and cut down on her consultation hours.”
I give my treasure a pointed look. “No wonder our wives get along. It seems they have a lot in common.”
Anya’s makes light of the statement with a laugh. “See you around, Logan.”
I make sure he gets to his car and watch the taillights disappear through the gates before I put out the fire, lock the door, and set the alarm.
Anya is already upstairs. She’s removing the pearl earrings I gave her in front of the mirror when I walk into the dressing room.
I cut straight to the chase. “You didn’t tell me about Tersia.”
She meets my gaze in the reflection with a quirk of her luscious, pink lips. “I didn’t want you to kill her because she upset me.”
She’s only half joking.
“You should’ve told me.”
She turns. Her face is scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair is brushed out. She’s wearing her favorite oversized T-shirt. Standing there so unadorned and natural, she looks impossibly young. She’ll only be twenty-five in a month. That’s way too young to navigate the pitfalls of my world. I always knew she was too young for me. I’ve got six years on her, which may not seem like a big number, but it’s not my age that matters as much as the shitload of baggage I bring with me.
“It’s not important,” she says.
“Do you think I don’t know when you lie to me?”
Annoyance tightens her mouth. “You had enough to do, such as fighting for your life in a hospital room.”
I lean the crutches on the vanity and brush a curl behind her ear, cupping the side of her head and dwarfing her perfect face in my big palm. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Don’t play it down.” Sparks dance in her eyes. “The doctors thought you weren’t going to make it.”
I search those mesmerizing whisky-colored pools for the truth. “Is that why you’re not starting a new life in Switzerland? Because you feel guilty that I almost died? Are you staying out of some warped sense of gratitude, thinking you owe me?”
She strains in my grip, but I don’t let her off the hook. I hold fast.
“Answer me, tesoro.”
“You’re so full of shit,” she says, slamming her palms on my chest. “I’m here because I want to be.”
“Why?” I ask, pressing for something I don’t deserve, something I don’t believe.
“Because we’re a family now. Or at least, I’m trying for us to be one.” Her voice is pained. “I thought you wanted that too.”
I lean closer and inhale the smell of smoke in her hair. It mixes with the fragrance of summer and flowers that lingers on her skin, creating an intoxicating cocktail of something that reminds me of happy spring memories. Of camping out with my father and fishing by the lake before I was old enough to realize my mom wasn’t giving us space to bond over boy stuff as much as she was too sick to join us. But this isn’t about that baggage. This is about Anya and about all the important things she doesn’t tell me.
“Why, Anya?” Lowering my head, I brush my lips over the shell of her ear. “If not out of guilt, why did you choose to stay?”
“Because I love you,” she cries out with a broken sob. “I love you, Sav.” She pulls her back straight, standing there looking rigid and too open and vulnerable. “I love you, and damn you, you’ll never love me back.”
Her brave stance caves with the admission, her knees buckling as if the weight of the truth is too heavy to bear.
“No, treasure.” I fan my fingers over her cheeks and tilt her head back, forcing her to look at me when I give her the real version of the truth. “You don’t love me. You just think you do because in that pure, just, clever mind of yours, you reckon it’s the right thing to do.”
She gnashes her teeth. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel. Don’t tell me my feelings aren’t real because it’s easier for you to live with a woman you can never love if she doesn’t love you too. That makes you a hypocrite.” She shoves me, not moving me an inch. “By telling yourself I don’t love you, you don’t have to feel guilty knowing you’ll never be able to love your wife.”