Page 45 of The Thought of You

“I’m plenty nice, but you—” He releases a low, sarcastic chuckle. “You just can’t see it, can you? You’re too set on making me the bad guy in your sweet little Addie show.”

“I might be open to changing my mind about you if you didn’t hate me, but I don’t make a habit of going easy?—”

“Whoa. Back up. What are you talking about?”

I jam my finger into the valley between his curved pecs and do my best to ignore how hard his chest is. They’re just muscles, after all. It’s nothing new. I’ve seen muscles before.

But his feel like more than just muscles.

They’re the products of hard work and dreams come true.

He gained this physique from years of pursuing his passion in baseball, all before it was ripped away by his injury.

I respect these muscles.

My previously succinct trail of thoughts changes course, leaping into more of a zigzagging pattern as I stumble over what I want to say next.

He dips his head and inches closer, and my arm floats back to my side, my fingertips skimming the thin material of his button up.

His voice drops into a lower octave, one I feel in my freaking toes, as he says, “I don’t hate you, Lockhart. I never have.”

Time—and my heartbeat—sputters to a stop as the weight of his confession settles over me.

chapter

thirteen

OWEN

“Come with me,” Addie whispers, then whirls on her heel.

I don’t even register what she says before I put one foot in front of the other, flying next to her. I wouldn’t have cared had she told me to shove my face into the ground—I would have fucking done it until dirt filled my nostrils, and I couldn’t breathe.

My arm brushes against her shoulder, and something must jog loose in my brain. It’s like two live wires in there, cutting off power and letting me function on autopilot.

I slip my hand into hers, but she swats me away, hissing, “Are you insane?”

“It felt like a hold-your-hand moment,” I mumble. “My bad.”

Ignoring me, she nods and smiles toward a few guests, and gone is the air of wonder I thought I saw in her eyes. A mask disguises her curious features now, and my easy steps falter.

Does she care about my confession? Does she believe me? There’s a chance she wants to corner me just to interrogate me like she did over the dinner, as if I admitted the truth about never hating her in hopes of receiving something in return.

She drilled me, and she might as well have sunk her nails into my arms and clawed the shit out of me. It fucking nags at me to think no one ever does nice things for her for the sake of being nice.

At the base of the winding staircase, she pauses to check over both shoulders, then rips off the caution tape.

And my jaw drops.

She’s the one who marked off the staircase for fear people would venture into the bedrooms upstairs and mess with the ornate figurines and objects that add to the historical value of this mansion.

But she’s now the one tearing down the rules and climbing up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” I whisper, and the infrastructure of the walls carries my echo up to her.

With her hand on the railing, her fingers splayed over the side, she peers down at me with the same sparkle in her eye from before. “Care to find out?”

I trip over my feet in my attempt to reach her.

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