Page 66 of What's Left of Us

Wetting my lips, I fiddle with my fingers until he tips my chin up to meet his eyes.

“Georgia,” he says softly, the pad of his thumb caressing my bottom lip. “Why would you think that?”

Briefly, I close my eyes and let myself enjoy the way his hand feels on my face. His warmth soaks into me, calming me. “Because my father says I’m no different than Luca Carbone.”

Lincoln’s hand stiffens. “When did you speak to your father?”

In the back of my mind, I hear a clock.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

And I know my time is running out.

Two days—less than that, since I spent most of the afternoon sulking in the bubble bath while Lincoln was at his family’s house helping his father with some sort of engine restoration project. By the time he’d gotten back, I convinced myself to tell him about my father showing up at work.

But then he kissed me, and it warmed me more than the bubble bath had. And the words got stuck in my throat, lodging there and holding on for dear life to my vocal cords because I didn’t want to believe what my father implied, and I was scared Lincoln would tell me he’s right.

“He came to the library,” I whisper.

Lincoln’s hand drops. “Did he do something?”

His hard tone has me swallowing. “N-no.”

The man in front of me looks over my face as if he needs to double-check for himself. “I need you to listen to me, Georgia, and listen good.”

It’s hard to look away when his voice becomes low and demanding, a husky undertone that has me watching him as his nostrils flare.

“There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t been willing to help you. Not because you asked but because youdidn’t. You’re stubborn and determined to make something of yourself, no matter what gets taken away or what obstacle is put in front of you. If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have let you in. Understand?”

My heart is beating fast in my chest as I let my head bob up and down slowly.

“Did he say anything else to you?” he asks in a tone ten times softer than before.

Lips parting, I try forcing the words out.

Because Lincoln Danforth cares.

I’m not sure how much.

I’m not even sure why.

But he does.

And that’s more than I’m used to.

“He wants me to marry Luca Carbone,” I whisper, my fear-laden words thick as tears prick the back of my eyes.“Apparently, being a Del Rossi means coming with a price tag. And the Carbones are willing to pay it.”

Lincoln’s eyes, once a beautiful brown and glimmering with mischief, are now shadowed with anger. “He can’t have you.”

He can’t have you.

Is that really up to me?

“Tell me,” he grinds out. “Tell me what Nikolas said.”

I hesitate only a moment.

Watch him.

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