Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
When I came out, Zach had already gotten dressed and stood in the dark living room like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Ignoring him, I knelt down on the rug and felt around for a mess. I didn’t feel any wetness, but I scrubbed at the spot anyway. Hard. Like I was trying to erase what we’d done.
Zach let it go on for a moment, watching silently. “You’re going to put a hole in that rug.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Talk to me.” He walked over and took me by the elbow, bringing me to my feet. “You’re angry.”
“You said you couldn’t see me tonight. You said you couldn’t come here.”
“Millie,” he said quietly, his eyes burning into mine. “If I could stay away from you, don’t you think that I would?”
My breath caught. “I shouldn’t have let you in.”
“Don’t be mad at yourself—this is my fault.”
“I’m mad at both of us, Zach! What are we doing?” I tossed a hand in the air.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“We keep saying this has to stop, and then we don’t stop. What is our problem?”
“We like each other?” The fact that it came out as a question nearly made me smile.
“But we’re not animals,” I argued. “We have instincts, but we also have morals.”
“Actually, some animals do have morals.”
I looked at him. “You know what I mean.”
He smiled—barely. “Sorry. I know what you mean.”
“I just—I can’t understand why it’s so hard for us to do what we know is right. We are not bad people. So why are we acting like it?”
“I think it’s complicated.”
“But it shouldn’t be,” I said heatedly, shaking my head. “We’re making it complicated. Every time we give in to this—this—whatever it is, we’re making things worse.” To my chagrin, my eyes filled with tears. “How can something that makes me feel so good also make me feel so bad?”
“Hey. Come here.” Zach pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around me. I let him envelop me in his masculine warmth, pressing close to his firm, broad chest. I wasn’t a child, but Zach had a way of making me feel cosseted and safe when he held me like this.
In fact, the pure bliss of it set off an alarm in my head, and I tried to pull away. Zach just held me tighter.
“There’s nothing wrong with us,” he said. “It’s just everything outside that door that’s the problem.”
“I know. And when we’re together, I get so carried away, I convince myself nothing out there matters. But it does.”
“It does,” he agreed.
“That’s why I should tell you to go now, before someone sees your car on the street.”
“And it’s why I would leave if you asked.”
I closed my eyes. “What if I don’t ask?”
“Then I would stay.”
“God. I feel like I have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. The angel is telling me to say goodnight.”
“And the devil?”
“The devil says all our problems would be solved if I just move my car out of the garage and you pulled yours in.”
“I’m not sure that solves all our problems, but it takes care of the immediate one.”
I pressed my cheek to his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. “Since you’re already here tonight, maybe you could just stay. And in the morning, we’ll say goodbye and part as friends.”
“I’ll move both cars,” he said. “Where are your keys?”
“Did you always want to be a SEAL?” I asked, tucked in the crook of his arm. I had no idea what time it was—somewhere in the middle of the night—but we were post-round two, finally cooled off enough to pull the covers up to our chests.
“I always wanted to fight bad guys,” he said.
“And did you?” I ran my fingers along the scar on his right arm.
“Yes.”
“What do you think gave you such a strong sense of justice? Or was it just that you wanted to be a badass in uniform?”
He didn’t answer right away. “It was losing my sister.”
I stopped moving my hand on his arm. “Poppy, right?”
“Right.” The room seemed even more silent. “It was my fault.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“It was my fault,” he repeated, his tone matter-of-fact.
I sat up and looked at him. “What do you mean? I thought you said it was an accident.”
“It was my negligence that caused the accident. I was supposed to be watching her.”
“But you were only seven!”
“I was old enough.” His voice was reedy. “We were playing outside. I left her alone in the front yard while I went into the garage to find the pump to put air in my bike tires. She wandered. We lived near a lake.”
My throat clutched, and my eyes watered. “You poor thing. Your parents blamed you?”
“No. But I didn’t need them to blame me. I knew it was my fault.”