Page 75 of Ruthless Regret

Pushing away, I head back down the hallway, drawn to her room like there’s an invisible thread pulling me. I stand outside her door for a moment, then quietly turn the handle and step back inside.

She’s still curled under the covers, the lines of tension in her face smoothed away by sleep. Vulnerable. Soft. I never thought I’d associate either word with her.

Sitting back down in the chair, I keep my distance, but I can't take my eyes off her. I’m trying to reconcile this woman with the girl in my memories, the one who testified against me, the one I blamed for years. But they don't fit together anymore. The edges are blurred, the lines redrawn.

I was wrong. About her. About my plan. About everything.

I'm about to get up and walk out again, when she starts to stir. It's slow at first. A shift in her body, a small sigh, her lashes fluttering against her cheek. She's still half-asleep when she rolls over, blinking against the light.

When her gaze lands on me, surprise covers her face, eyes widening a little, as if she isn’t expecting to find me here.

"You're still here." Her voice is a sleepy mumble. She sits up, pushing the sheets down with one hand. Her hair is a tousled mess around her face, and there's a slight crease mark from where the pillow pressed into her cheek. She lifts a hand, and pushes her hair away from her face.

Her movements are slower, unguarded, like she hasn't quite rebuilt her walls yet. Everything about her seems softer, quieter. It's a side of her I've never seen before, and it’s fascinating. It does something to me, something I'm not ready to examine too closely.

"I thought ... I didn't think you'd stay." Her voice is soft, and there's a vulnerability to her in this moment that catches me off guard. She's all tousled hair, sleepy eyes, and quiet uncertainty.

"I told you I'd stay." The words come out gruffer than I intend, but I can't seem to soften them.

"Yeah, but ..." She hesitates, her lips parting as she meets my eyes. Her fingers brush through her hair again, a nervous gesture I'm starting to recognize. "You didn't have to," she says finally, the words quiet. "You could have left."

"I know."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

I can’t tellif he’s irritated or just tired. There’s a gruffness to his voice that could mean either.

If he really spent the night in here, did he sleep at all?

“I should get up, and take a shower.” It’s a lame excuse to break the silence.

“Go ahead,” he says in the same tone, and stands up. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to get started.” And then he’s gone, the door closing on his back before I can say another word.

I stay where I am for a minute or two, letting the silence of the room wash over me, then give myself a mental shake, throw off the sheets and climb out of bed. Lifting my suitcase onto the bed, I throw it open and pick out clothes, and my wash bag, and head into the bathroom to take a shower.

The hot water eases some of the tension in my muscles, and washes away some of the lingering unease, but it doesn’t help me find answers for the weird shift between us.

Maybe I just imagined it.

I’m here. I agreed to work with him to find the truth. I have no idea how to navigate whatever is going on between us, or what it means. Maybe he’s trying to keep me from walking away again.

By the time I’m dressed, I feel more like myself again, and set off downstairs. Following the faint sound of clinking cups, I find him in the kitchen, pouring coffee. His back is to me, but when I walk in, he glances over his shoulder. He looks like he’s also showered. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s changed out of the white shirt and pants he was wearing, and is now in a black long-sleeved T-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying colorful tattoos on both arms, and black jeans.

“You okay?” he asks as soon as I step into the room.

“Fine. You?”

He nods, and hands me a mug.

I’m surprised to see it’s tea. I wrap my fingers around it, and carry it over to the table, where I sit down. He follows me, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, and sits back, sipping his coffee.

The silence stretches between us, awkward and thick, and I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, trying to think of a way to start a conversation that won’t sound forced.

“So … what now?” My voice is a little too bright, and one dark eyebrow lifts on the man opposite me.

He takes another sip of coffee before answering. “You’re not going to like my suggestion.”

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