Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I'm not a fool. I know that just wanting something from him doesn't mean I deserve it. Wanting him to be a certain way negates who he actually is.
The man is beyond good-looking, and as corny as it sounds, I imagine he could have any woman he set his sights on. So there's a reason why he was single before he showed up at the warehouse. He wasn't in a relationship because he wasn't looking for one.
I have no idea why he volunteered to tangle his life up with mine in the first place.
"Is this weird for you?" I whisper, part of me hoping he's already asleep and won't be capable of answering the ridiculous question.
"Yes," he replies instantly, and the one syllable has the power to make my eyes burn.
I know this entire situation is awkward for both of us, but to hear it from his lips hits me right in the center of my chest. I didn't imagine the confirmation would be so painful.
"I've thought about it for a while, but I still have no idea why I feel more comfortable with you than I ever have with anyone before."
Hope and something akin to giddiness begin to bloom inside of me, and I'm grateful for the darkness cloaking us so he can't see the smile that forces its way across my face.
"Are you usually around people you don't like?" I ask, turning over to face him, and feeling him do the same.
We aren't touching, but we're close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body near me. An ache for connection begins to swim inside of me, urging me to inch a hair closer.
"No," he says. "I've always done my best to situate myself around people I can trust."
"Trust," I whisper, the concept a little foreign in my experience.
"Why do you say it like that?" he asks. "Who betrayed you?"
"Who hasn't?" I return, bitterness from my past swelling in my throat.
"Morgan?" he asks, and her name from his lips startles me.
He's paid enough attention to what I've said to remember her name, and that detail endears him to me just a little more.
"Never Morgan," I assure him. "I didn't have the best time back home. Some stuff went down, and people I thought were loyal to me weren't."
"That's heartbreaking," he says, startling me when I feel his palm on my face.
With tender fingers, he brushes a lock of hair off my cheek, urging it behind my ear.
"Sorry," he whispers, having noticed me jolt at his touch. "I just wanted to see your face better."
I feel put on the spot. The limited light of the moon coming in from the sheer curtains is at his back, casting him in shadow and all but putting a spotlight on me.
My eyes flutter closed for a brief second when his hand lingers on my face, but then he pulls it back, and I feel the absence of it in a way I'm sure I shouldn't.
"What was his name?"
I snap my eyes open, despite not being able to see his face well.
"What do you mean?"
"I figure it was a man who hurt you so badly," he says, his tone conversational. I think if I had time to analyze the ease of it, I'd find a hint of irritation as if he hates the guy who would have that audacity to upset me in any way.
"You have a degree in psychology I don't know about?" I tease, but, honestly, I could fit all that I know about this man in the palm of my hand.
His laughter blankets me, but I know I can't allow myself to snuggle down in it too deeply. This isn't real. Our marriage was his split-second-thinking idea to save me from some very bad men when I stupidly put myself in a situation that I couldn't get out of on my own. This isn't a love match. Fate wasn't working overtime to put us back together after he ran into my cereal display at the grocery store.
The only happy ending happening here is that he might've saved my life after I made a series of stupid decisions. I'm grateful to him for being there, despite how he may have perceived my initial irritation with him showing up.
"No psychology degree," he says, his voice low and intimate.
Another bout of silence swirls around us, but I don't feel pressured to speak, as if he's waiting for me to spill my guts to him. It doesn't stop that need from rising, the one that was always there when I was younger and being ignored by people who called themselves my friends.
"I grew up in a small town," I begin, sort of loving that I have his undivided attention. "The kind of place where everyone knows everyone. There were never any secrets, no matter how adamant someone was that they wouldn't tell a soul what you told them."