Page 52 of The Wrong Heart

I follow her.

“Hey,” I call out, gaining her attention before she slips inside the car. “What the hell?”

Melody falters, her hand curling around the door frame. She watches as I storm over to her, a frown unfurling, then tucks her windswept hair behind her ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are there a dozen fucking cupcakes in my truck?”

Her frown deepens. “You don’t like them?”

“They look fantastic, but that’s not the point. Why are they there?” I stop right in front of her, maybe a few feet away, but it’s close enough to smell her shampoo when that breeze blows through again.

“Did you read the note?”

“No.”

Melody’s lips part to speak, but only a little burst of laughter spills out. “I just wanted to thank you for… last week.” Her smile brightens with genuine gratitude as she glances at me. “And thank you for driving my car home that night. It was an unexpected surprise.”

My fists clench at my sides, my teeth grinding together. “Yeah, well, you were an idiot and left the keys in the ignition. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Her face falls, her smile fading, but I refuse to feel bad about it. This is better—this is so much better, this anger and resentment. It’s better than whatever the hell else has been simmering beneath the surface, trying to crawl its way inside, unwanted and unwelcome.

Trespassing.

“Well, I do appreciate it.”

She’s still all sweetness and niceties, despite the fact that I just insulted her to her face.

No, Melody, get mad. It’s easier that way.

“I don’t need your appreciation. Or your cupcakes. Or your damn love notes,” I bark back, inching closer, so she canfeelmy anger. She can soak it up and throw it back at me, just like she did last week, beneath dark clouds and furious rainfall.

I want her to throw punches, hurl her bitter words at me,get fucking mad.

And she does raise her hand to me, she does, but it’s not a strike. There’s nothing violent in the way her hand elevates, and her fingers reach out, applying a soft pressure to my forearm. A gentle caress. Careful and delicate.

I rip my arm away. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just—”

“I don’t like to be touched.”

She swallows, her eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones as she blinks up at me. “You don’t like it, or you’re not used to it?”

How about this:the one person in the world who was supposed to care for me, love me, protect me… abused the fuck out of me. Instead of hugs, I got hot cigarette butts to my skin, covering me in hideous scars. Instead of cuddles, I got a leather belt across my face. Instead of kisses, I got broken bones. And when I wasn’t being beaten down until I went numb, I was neglected. Locked inside a dark closet with only my imaginary friend to keep me company.

Ifearedtouch.

But all I say is, “Both.”

Melody reaches out again, to prove some kind of moot point, so I snatch her wrist before she makes contact. Her breath catches, her fingers relaxing in my grip.

“Stop,” I tell her, my tone low and bordering on threatening. “You’re like a lost puppy, looking for a bone. But you’re barking up the wrong tree, sunshine, because I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck. So, whatever hand you’re trying to play, I suggest you fold now. You’re in the wrong game.”

She’s quiet for a while, making me all too aware of the way her wrist feels tucked inside my palm.Again. She’s always trying to touch me somehow—playful, hostile, kind. She’s trying to get close and eradicate my walls. But I’ve been building these walls for a long, long time, and they were built to last.

Maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job—at building things. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice.

Melody doesn’t pull away from me, or fire back like I want her to. I’m begging for her wrath, but she only gives me warmth. “You said I look at you like I’m trying to fix you,” she says softly, her eyes scanning my face, searching for a crack. A hole.A way in.“You look at me like you’re trying to break me.”

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