Page 127 of Heart So Hollow

“If not, it’s one really sick joke,” I chuckle as he grabs my hand and hoists me upright.

“I’ll start looking for a nanny now,” he says while buttoning his jeans, “if I have to keep you pregnant just so you can get off every 15 seconds, we’re going to need help. And a bigger house.”

Among other things, this is one of the reasons I don’t want him to leave…

I also just hate sleeping without him. Tonight, as if my body is trying to savor his presence, I fall into a deep sleep with my head resting on his bicep and my body curled beneath his arm, wrapped in his warmth. We’ve always slept this way, since the first night I spent with him.

Morning comes too soon, and I have to pull myself together and quickly come to terms with the fact that I won’t see him again for a few days. But I have things to do, like write another book. It doesn’t stop here, and there are so many more stories itching to get out of my head and onto my laptop. Maybe that will also temper my responses to any more private details about my life that get leaked on the Internet.

Digging through the dryer, I finally find one of his black polos with the gold logo on the chest and head back to the bedroom. He’s sitting at the end of the bed tying the laces of his boots and looks up as I sweep my hand over the dresser. I tuck his Glock and its black holster under my arm and step in front of him, holding his black shirt open at the neck.

He glances at the shirt and then looks up at me with a glimmer in his eye.

Once I realize what he’s looking at, I shoot him a warning look, “Don’t say anything.”

He smiles and takes the shirt from me, “I didn’t say a thing.” After he pulls it over his head, he stands up and cups my face to gently kiss me, “Never say never,” he murmurs.

I gaze up at him in silence, into his eyes that go on forever.

“Why are you looking at me like you’re never going to see me again?” he asks, brushing his thumbs back and forth over my cheeks.

“Because I hope I do see you again.” I know he’s careful, calculating, the most prepared person I know, but things still happen—things can still go wrong.

A gentle smile spreads across his face, “This is our part, just you and me. And the next time I see you, the only ones still standing—” he takes his holster from my hand and tucks it into the back of his jeans, “will be you and me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Brett

One Year Ago

Routines are great, until they start driving you crazy. I never thought I would be the one to believe that, but it’s true. It’s a completely normal Tuesday, which includes Colson sauntering through my office door at noon. He does the exact same thing whenever I’m here—walks into my office, shuts the door, and sits down in the chair next to the window.

Except today, when he walks through the door, I’m wondering where he’s been in my house—in mine and Bowen’s house—and when.

Did he come in through the front door? Did he walk up the steps to the back deck and come in through the sliding glass door? Did he pet Waylon on his way to the kitchen?

I’m obsessing now, even as Colson rips open his Twix wrapper, takes one bar out, and slides it onto the edge of the desk. I stare at the candy for a moment, remembering the last time he brought me something to eat. I can’t prove that he did something to that latte, or whatever it was, but I know he did.

Just like I know he left that goddamn smoothie in my fridge.

I shake it off, trying to refocus before finally picking up the candy bar, “Thanks.” I bite off the end.

He might be a deviant, but I’ll still eat his chocolate as long as I saw him open the wrapper.

“What are you doing right now?” he bites the end off of his half, “Want to get lunch?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”

I’m trying to maintain firm boundaries, especially since Colson likes to say inappropriate things, throw out ominous warnings, and then act like nothing ever happened. He’s so toxic, and I’m an idiot for putting up with his nonsense, because things like yesterday are what happen when you decide to give someone the benefit of the doubt—again. You end up with phantom smoothies in your refrigerator and start to question your own sanity.

“We don’t have to go to Cincy,” Colson glances at his phone and then slides it into his pocket, “I’m sure there’s a Burger King around here somewhere.”

I give a tight-lipped smile, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I’m shocked by how even my voice is while a hurricane rages in my mind.

“Why?”

“Because,” I take a deep breath, “there was a smoothie in my refrigerator yesterday morning.”

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