Page 13 of Lynch's Match

“Prospect just left your apartment,” he states and moves back to the kitchen portion of his open plan. “You want something to drink while we wait?”

“Do you have water?” I ask, feeling stupid for even asking.

“Yep,” he states, popping the P at the end.

Lynch opens the fridge, reaches in, and pulls out another beer and a bottle of water. He tosses the water my way and pops the cap off his beer. There’s something in his gaze that doesn’t sit well with me, and I don’t know how to decipher it. What I do know is that whatever it is has to do with those pictures, which makes me wonder if I didn’t look at them hard enough.

Thirty minutes pass before a knock sounds on the door. Neither of us speaks to the other. I don’t because I’m stuck in my head replaying the day those images came in so many years ago.

My aunt has never liked Lynch, but she loved me. All she wanted was for me to be happy and follow my dreams. To have the life I deserve. That’s what she told me when she gave me the yellow envelope containing the images that broke my heart. She even held me as I cried.

Lynch moves to the door, opens it, but doesn’t let anyone in. I watch him as he reaches an arm out and, a moment later, steps back with my briefcase in hand as he closes the door with a sharp thud. His gaze comes to mine as he moves toward me and hands me the case.

“Now, show me the pictures,” he commands, his tone harsh and gravelly. It’s a telltale sign that he’s definitely pissed.

Without looking away, I reach into my briefcase. I know exactly where I put them. There’s no need to look to confirm. I pull the envelope out and hold it out for him to see the proof I have that he’s lying. “Here you can see for yourself.”

Lynch snatches the envelope, opens it, and only when he takes the images out of does he look down. He goes still, and I watch as his jaw clenches and his muscles bunch.

“Baby, got to say these are damn good pictures, but they’re not real,” he finally states after shifting through each picture.

“How so? You can’t tell me that’s not you,” I snap. “I’m not stupid enough to not know exactly who that is because there’s no denying the tattoo is hard to recreate. All of them,” I insinuate, grinding my teeth.

“Yeah, Cams, that’s me,” he grunts and shoves the images at me. “Can’t say that’s not me. But look at the background. Look at the woman’s body. Look at the image where the woman’s back is to the camera.”

Clenching the pictures, I break eye contact and peer down at the images. Doing as he said and looking at the picture with the woman’s back facing the camera. You can’t see Lynch’s face as it’s buried in the woman’s neck, but you can see his arm. The tattoo that goes up his forearm is noticeable and distinguishable.

“Look at the woman’s back, Camilla. Look just between the arms,” Lynch orders.

I do, and my breath catches in my chest. My lungs seize, and there’s no air escaping as I see what he’s talking about. I stare at it, and at the same time feeling the tattoo that sits in the exact same spot on my back. It’s a simple design but intricate with Lynch’s name.

How did I not notice this? All these years . . . I look at the next image, seeing the face of another woman, but the body is mine.

“You get it now, don’t you?” Lynch growls, coming to squat in front of me. Taking the pictures in one hand, he clutches them and holds them up. “I never did you wrong, Camilla. It’s the other way around.”

My stomach churns, and I jump to my feet, almost knocking him back as I slap a hand to my mouth and rush to the glass doors. I slide them open as fast as I can and step out into the cool night air. I barely get to the grass before I crumble to my knees, everything in my stomach coming out. My eyes shut, tears spilling down my cheeks, my stomach in knots.

I barely feel the hand that comes to my nape and holds my hair out of my face.

Lynch doesn’t say anything. He’s just there when he shouldn’t be. How can he stand to be in the same room with me? Let alone touch me. I don’t understand how he could even bear to look at me knowing I’m the one who deceived him and not the other way around.

I hate myself for allowing these images to fool me so easily. For not talking to him. Questioning him. I lost him so long ago, and yet he’s here holding my hair and touching me. Demanding we get things straight between us.

“How can you stand to be in the same room with me?” I manage to ask long minutes later.

Instead of answering me right away, Lynch moves, adjusts me so that he can scoop me in his arms, and carries me back inside. He sits on the couch and holds me in his arms.

“This isn’t just on you, Cams. I shouldn’t have walked away the way I did when I saw you. I should have confronted you. You were hurt?—”

“Don’t make excuses for me.” My breath hitches, and more tears fall down my cheeks. “I screwed up and messed everything up between the two of us. You should hate me.”

“Can’t hate you, Cams. No matter how much I tried. I couldn’t,” he says, stroking my sides. “I was pissed, still am, but never, baby, have I ever hated you.”

Shoving my face in his neck, I wrap my arms tight around his neck. “I’m so sorry, Lynch. So, so, sorry. I don’t know if I could ever make things right between us.”

“Not up to you to make things right,” he mutters and holds me.

Neither of us speaks another word. He holds me and lets me cry in his arms, and I do. I cried until I couldn’t cry any more tears, and I cry myself to sleep. All the while, he held me close and didn’t let go.

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