Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
I rush to explain, hoping I can smooth this over.
“You’ve suffered,” I say softly. “I get it. I’ve seen it before. With Dad and some of his ex-vet friends.”
“Hmm,” Kayden says, giving nothing away, staring at me steadily.
It’s like his lack of a response pushes me on. “It’s the way you’re always searching the surroundings. Or sitting with your back to the wall. It’s the intensity, Kayden. I’m sorry. I know talking about this stuff is hard. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”
Except that throwing out an explanation—or perhaps accusations—is easier than admitting the truth. It’s easier than explaining why I had to stop so abruptly, why I felt like I would humiliate myself if I didn’t.
“Right,” Kayden says, turning away.
He’s become distant, as if detaching. His tone is different.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Home,” he replies, reaching for the door. “I shouldn’t have pushed too fast. I should’ve been a gentleman, but this other stuff…”
“Kayden, it’s okay.”
I rush forward, but when he spins on me, I cringe away, feeling tiny beneath his wide shoulders, his fixated gaze.
“No, it’s not. None of this is okay.”
With that, he turns and throws the door open, marching down the stairs. I stand at the top of the stairs, watching him go, wanting to say countless things but unable to summon a single one. My heart melts when Buckie runs to the bottom of the stairs, yapping at Kayden. He kneels down and strokes the top of the doggie’s head.
“Sorry, boy, I’ve got to go.”
Kayden leaves, having to open and shut the door quickly so Buckie doesn’t sprint after him.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs, scooping Buckie up, then carry him to the window and watch as Kayden drives away.
His resolve iced over the second I mentioned the PTSD stuff.
Can I blame him? I had no right to stab him in his most sensitive area, which clearly this is. Something he’s probably never talked about. Something he’s probably content to bury. All because I didn’t want to tell him the truth about myself.
When I put Buckie down, he whines, heading for the back door. I follow him, letting him out, standing at the door as Jodi and his nephew and their friends laugh from the yard, but they’re quieter now. Even when Buckie lets out a long, pining whine like he’s missing Kayden as much as I am, Jodi doesn’t say anything. He normally would, but that was before he protected me. That was before the kiss and everything else.
My belly goes tight, like something deep within is telling me I should’ve done everything I could to make things work with Kayden. I should’ve pushed down my doubts so deep they didn’t have a chance to interfere.
I should’ve taken his manhood in my hand and stroked confidently, guiding him to my sex, taking every inch.
I want this to be more than sex, I could’ve whispered when he was inside of me, my mouth pressed close to his ear. I want us to have a future together. I want us to have… but there’s no point lingering on something that can never happen.
Buckie returns to me, pawing at my leg.
“I know, boy,” I whisper, carrying him inside. “I miss him, too.”
I sit in the living room, on the armchair, positioned so I can look out the window. I’m aware this is probably majorly pathetic, staring at the street as if Kayden’s going to return. I imagine him hurrying up the driveway, eager to see me, pulling me into his arms and whispering that he already knows. He can tell. He guessed. He doesn’t need me to say it.
“I get why you were angry. You’re ashamed, but you don’t have to be, not with me, not about anything.”
I’d tell him I’m sorry for pushing about his personal stuff, about what I perceive as his PTSD.
There is a chance I could be wrong. I could have misread the signs. I was an idiot for bringing it up.
Eventually, Buckie falls asleep in my lap. He knows Kayden isn’t coming back.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Kayden
“Hey, bro.” Connor stands at the threshold of his home in the suburbs, leaning against the frame, narrowing his eyes like he’s reading the darkness in me. “Is everything all right?”
He must be able to read the tension still gripping me. I thought it might fade during the drive, but the longer the drive went, the more fierceness cut into me. I replayed the moment over and over, the moment she saw me, the real me, the danger pulsing in my mind, the warlike instincts trying to break into regular life.
“Yeah,” I say gruffly.
Connor tilts his head. His hair’s down, wet from the shower, jostling around his face.
“Want to come in for a bite to eat? A talk?”
I nod, not needing to say anything else. Connor steps aside, waving me inside.