Page 42 of The Wanderer

So why did the obvious poverty of his home leave her questioning if he'd been entirely truthful with her?

She could tolerate many things, lies weren’t one of them, and the thought he might’ve withheld the truth from her set off a deep-seated panic.

She hated the anxiety clawing at her common sense, a small insistent nagging that Logan could be yet another person she’d let into her heart that would ultimately lie and betray her.

Could she ever really trust anybody ever again?

As he showered, belting out some ancient rock classic, she strolled through his home. All five rooms of it. A living room, a kitchen, two tiny bedrooms, and a makeshift sunroom tagged onto the back. The size surprised her but not as much as the shabby air that clung to the faded surfaces.

The kitchen decor hadn't been changed since the seventies, with every cupboard and tile a burnished orange. The stovetop resembled an antique, the mini-fridge the same. The sunroom was empty, bar an old rocking chair with a frayed purple cushion.

She hadn't taken much notice of the living room when he'd been pleasuring her, but now she took her time studying it: an old brick fireplace with a bluestone mantle, a dull grey carpet worn threadbare in patches, an ancient TV, and a sofa with two matching chairs covered in a chintz print. She'd stuck her head in the master bedroom door for a quick glance, having time to take in a modest double bed and a side table. That's it.

The sparse furnishing could be a guy thing, considering he spent a lot of time on the road for work. But the overall air of abandonment, an empty shell of a house filled with old, ugly furniture, didn't gel with her image of Logan.

Why would a successful CEO of his own company reside in a place like this?

Unless he had money problems. A secret gambling addiction? Debts? Alimony?

The doubts started building, swamping her. She'd been in this position before. Discovering a man she loved had duped her, after gaining her trust by careful manipulation, only to rip the blinders from her eyes in the cruellest of ways.

Loved?

Crap. She couldn't love Logan. A self-confessed wanderer would not make a good boyfriend. Besides, love meant opening her heart completely when she entered into a relationship; it involved trusting him one hundred percent and Hope seriously doubted she had the ability to trust anyone that much.

She’d tried. Even after Willem had broken her heart, she’d put herself out there, hoping to find someone who would change her mind and make her a believer again.

But when it looked like a hook-up with the right guy had the potential to develop into something deeper, she’d sabotage it, every single time, too terrified to trust.

She couldn’t love Logan. She wouldn’t.

But what if she already did?

Anger at her stupidity made her want to lash out and unfortunately he chose that moment to stroll back into the living room, wearing soft cotton boxer shorts and a smug grin.

"Why is your place a hovel?" She asked, falling into that age-old pattern of sabotage, desperate for him to push her away before she fell any deeper.

His grin faded and sudden fury sparked his eyes, as intended. "I prefer understated, but hey, nice to know what you really think."

She tried not to wince and squared her shoulders, preparing for a battle she’d lose. She didn’t want to do this but she had to. It was the only way to salvage anything when she walked away like she always did.

"I’m curious as to why…all this." She swept her arm wide, gesturing at the furniture. "You're a CEO, living in a very humble dwelling. It doesn’t make sense."

She hated herself for prodding an obvious sore spot with him and he reared back as if she'd poked him in the eye. "What's it got to do with you how I live?"

What could she say? That she wanted to know more about what made him tick because she'd fallen for him? That she wanted more than a fling? That he’d wheedled his way into her heart without trying and she knew it would take a long time to get over him?

She had no answers so she reached for a little white lie. "I've had a guy lie to me before about his monetary status. I didn't care for it."

"Listen to yourself." His upper lip curled in derision as he folded his arms in a classic defensive posture. "I didn't care for it." He mimicked, shaking his head. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Hope knew exactly who she was: a foolish woman who’d fallen for the wrong guy. A woman so damn terrified of telling him the truth because he may turn out to be as untrustworthy as every single person in her past. A woman hurting so badly her throat seized with the effort of withholding her feelings for him.

He started pacing and she couldn't help but ogle the flexing of his back muscles rippling beneath a splendid expanse of tanned skin. "You contact my foreman to get my address. You turn up here like a stalker when I obviously didn't want to see you. Then you act like you've stepped in dog-shit because my house isn't good enough for you?"

He marched into the bedroom with a resounding, “Fuck," followed by a wardrobe door slamming.

She should be happy: objective achieved. She’d pushed him away before he could wangle his way any closer, tempting her to blurt the truth. But happiness was a far cry from the pain making her chest ache.

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