Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 92938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I shook my head, denying his words, denying him. He might think he had feelings for me but he didn’t. It was good sex, that was all. And maybe he’d fallen victim to some of that competitiveness that he’d said would work on Gage. It would fade though. Sooner rather than later, it would fade. I’d seen Phoebe. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. Silken smooth hair, eyes as blue as the summer sky, legs that went on forever. She was the sort of woman he’d end up with eventually. Naturally. It wasn’t only that she was beautiful, perfect in every single way. He’d been ready to marry her less than a month before. How dare he say he wanted a chance with me, when it was obvious that he’d lose interest when he came to his senses? And I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t. “You’re . . . on the rebound. You might think you have feelings for me, but you don’t. You can’t.”
“Who says?”
“Everyone,” I breathed. “Everyone says.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, regarding me. “So I don’t get to want you—to see a future for us—because of some arbitrary rule about so-called rebound relationships being destined for failure?”
“Yes. And . . . it doesn’t matter anyway. We can’t have a relationship because I’m leaving. I have to leave.”
“You don’t have to.”
I nodded, a jerky movement. “I do. I do. It’s part of the plan.” Don’t stop. Keep moving. Outrun the hurt. Don’t tempt additional pain. Keep your distance. Keep leaving before others leave you.
I deserved that, didn’t I? After a lifetime of not being able to run? I was in control now. Me.
He let out a small rueful laugh. “Yeah. I had a plan too, Haven. Plans don’t always work out. You’re not a rebound relationship.”
“No. I’m not. Because we’re not in a relationship. We’re friends.”
I saw how that word cut him and I looked away, taking a deep breath as I gathered myself. I smiled, looking back at Travis, reaching my hand out to him, but bringing it back before it made contact. “Let’s not prolong this, Travis. I care for you. I don’t want either of us to hurt. That was never the point. We’ve had fun, right?” I gave him a smile I was sure looked as shaky as it felt. “It’s been a good time and I’ll remember you . . . fondly.”
He winced.
The backs of my eyelids burned.
You’re awful, awful, awful.
Better this way.
Better this way.
Better this way.
I could see his mind turning, considering what to say. And so before he could say something that would weaken my resolve, I turned away. “Goodbye, Travis.”
I didn’t wait for him to reply as I practically flew up the stairs to the safety of my room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Travis
Go to her now?
Wait until tomorrow?
I sat in the darkened sitting room, plotting.
Tap, tap, tap.
There were a hundred things I could do to delay what she planned as the inevitable. Take the spark plugs out of her car . . . set up a roadblock for some trumped-up “criminal on the run” who didn’t really exist . . .
I’d seen the indecision on her face. The way it hurt her to hurt me.
Once my emotions had settled and I’d stopped spiraling, I’d realized what I knew to be true. She cared about me, I knew she did. To what extent, I wasn’t sure, but she did. I’d seen it. I’d felt it.
She was scared. And I understood that. I longed to comfort her, to convince her that I wouldn’t hurt her. And maybe she’d be most receptive tonight. Or perhaps a night alone—missing me—would do the trick. Then, if not, I’d move to plan B. C, if necessary.
Tap, tap, tap.
I stilled my fingers, drumming distractedly on the wooden armrest of the chair I was sitting in.
Was I plotting again after I just had a breakthrough?
Confusion descended.
Okay, yes, but this was different. This—letting Haven go without a fight—hurt in a way that giving up material things did not. I could handle certain types of losses in the face of more important goals. But this . . . surely there was something I could do, something to make this pain stop, to twist things back in my favor.
The front door opened, then closed, the soft sound of drunken singing meeting my ears. The person stumbled, swore, and commenced singing, entering the living room where I sat.
“Hello, Easton.”
“Holy fuck!” He tripped, catching himself, jumping upright when he spotted me, reaching blindly for—I assumed—the nearest weapon and coming up with an umbrella in a stand by the door. He held it out in front of him comically, stabbing it at the air.
“Relax. You don’t need to defend yourself.”
Easton, seemingly unconvinced, stared suspiciously at me, only weaving slightly.
“I heard you’re doing well at the firehouse.” One of my best friends worked there and he’d told me the kid was a hard worker. A quick learner. Diligent.