Page 107 of Unleashed

I bit my lip, nodding for him to continue.

“I went to my house in Maine,” he said, his tone growing distant, “and I drank. I couldn’t think straight. The beach I had wanted to share with you became the place I drowned in my misery.”

My stomach twisted. “And the boat?”

“I took it out the next day,” he said, his voice hollow. “The water was rough, but nothing I hadn’t navigated before. I made sure I had my life vest, but the storm hit faster than I expected. I tried heading back, but the engine died. A wave hit... and that’s the last thing I remember.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” I asked, my voice trembling.

He nodded slowly. “I was found by some fishermen. Hypothermic, nearly dead. They took me to a hospital in Nova Scotia.”

“Nova Scotia?” I whispered, shocked.

“I had amnesia,” he explained, his voice breaking. “They didn’t know who I was, and I couldn’t remember a thing. They called me Al... some inside joke from a Paul Simon song.”

I blinked, confused. “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly. “What matters is I didn’t remember who I was for months. I lived in Nova Scotia, thinking I was Canadian.”

“When did you remember?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Two months ago. It all came back... when I saw a truck from Thibodaux and Associates,” he said. “I remembered everything. I was a structural engineer. And I knew... I had to come back.”

“And just like that, it all came flooding back?” I asked, my voice dripping with disbelief.

“Every bit of it,” Michael said, his voice a mix of anguish and relief. “I remembered my name, who I was, and what happened to me. When I told Pierre I was a structural engineer, he thought I was having a mental break.”

“Well, in a way, you were,” I retorted, unable to hide the bitterness.

“But positively,” he countered, his eyes softening. “I proved what I knew when I saw the man who owned the truck. I started talking to him about the project, using technical language I hadn’t used since the accident.”

I swallowed hard. “Did you remember me?”

He looked down, his face etched with pain. “I did. When I remembered seeing you with Slade, my heart broke. I knew then that there was no chance for me anymore. It had been too long.”

“Michael,” I whispered, feeling the tears prick at my eyes.

His return had stirred up all the memories and emotions I’d buried. As I processed his words, Michael moved around the counter and gathered me into his arms. I let him hold me, despite knowing it was the worst possible decision. I wanted him so much, it hurt.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “You belong to someone else, and I’m sorry for that. Maybe you never truly belonged to me.”

“I love you,” I murmured, my voice choked with emotion.

“You can’t love me,” he said softly, his tone heavy with resignation. “You’re with another man. I might be many things, but I’m no snake. I won’t stand in your way.”

“What if I want you to stand in my way?” I pushed my nose against his black t-shirt, inhaling his familiar scent, which was a bittersweet reminder of everything we’d shared. Michael’s grip on my shoulders tightened, and he gently pushed me away to look into my eyes.

“I need to return to my world,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry you can’t be a part of it.”

With those final words, he released me and walked toward the door. I watched in stunned silence as he slipped through it and disappeared into the night. Alone, I sank to the floor, overwhelmed by the gravity of his departure.

Sobs wracked my body. I needed something stronger than wine to numb the pain. I grabbed a bottle of Svedka vodka from the freezer and took a swig straight from the bottle. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, but with each pull, the shaking in my hands subsided, leaving me with a hollow sense of calm.

CHAPTER 22

“Jesus Christ, Morgan, you’re drunk,” Slade’s voice cut through the haze as I slowly came to. I blinked groggily, realizing I was sprawled on my beige, plush area rug in the living room. The bottle of Svedka lay a few inches from my hand, a silent testament to my binge. My head pounded mercilessly, the result of too much vodka and too much heartache.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my voice barely above a whisper as Slade scooped me up in his strong arms.

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