Page 9 of Fool Me Once

There’s a harsh knock on the door, and my eyes widen. Clearing my throat, I run a hand over my hair, smoothing it out.

“Be right out,” I say, the words coming out as a weak mutter.

Rolling my shoulders back, I lift my hand to the door, and just as I open it, I’m met with Smith’s annoyingly handsome face, his body blockingthe doorway.

His tattooed arms are on full display, making it clear he’s changed a bit in the past six years. Before he left for Connecticut, he didn’t have a single bit of ink. Now, he’s covered. His dirty-blond hair is shorter than it was in high school when he had that shaggy look. And his body is pure muscle.

“Who the fuck did that to your face, Gemma?” His voice is gritty and deep.

Even though this particular bathroom is down a hallway in a more private part of the house, I’m still worried someone is going to hear him.

“I told you, I got into a car accident,” I answer quickly and coolly before narrowing my eyes at him. “Not like it’sanyof your damn business,Sawyer.”

He leans one arm against the doorframe, crowding my space with his stupid, delicious-smelling body. I hate him. I really, really hate him.

“Oh, are we on a last-name basis only now,Jones?”His eyes are dark and irate, and I feel a shiver of fear roll down my spine. “And, yeah, it is, Gem. When you showed up in Portland—your face battered to fuck—it became my business real fucking fast.”

I take a step back into the bathroom to put some space between us because, frankly, I can’t stand being this close to him. My face burns hot with heat, and my heart feels like it might leap out of my chest as I hear it pumping inside my own ears.

“Fuck. Off,” I hiss, my chest heaving as I give him another harsh glare before looking away.

Because eye contact … yeah, that’s not anything my body wants to take part in right now.

I pull in a deep breath and prepare to bolt past him. I don’t owe him a goddamn explanation to anything. He left me without even saying goodbye. And he’s never once apologized for it either.

Quickly, I duck my head down and attempt to go under his arm and squeeze past him. His arm loops tenderly around my frame, and when he pushes me deeper into the bathroom before he pulls the door closed, a yelp escapes my throat when his hold clutches my rib cage. His touch isn’t aggressive or frightening, but my injuries … are still very much fresh.

Within a split second, he pulls his arm back, looking sick. I wrap my arms around myself as tears involuntarily spring to my eyes from the pain of having my ribs touched.

He looks down at me, stumbling back until he’s against the door.

“Lift your shirt up, Gemma.” Though the words come out in a deep command, he doesn’t sound intimidating. To be honest, he just sounds … worried.

My eyes cut back to his once more, and I suck in a breath, forcing myself to pull my shit together. I can’t let him see me this way, and I really can’t let him find out the truth about why I’m here—or why I have these bumps and bruises.

“No,” I say sharply. “You lost your chance to see me without a shirt, assfuck.”

“There’s that grit. There’s the girl I know,” he whispers, his voice a little softer this time. “I was wondering if you were still somewhere inside there, Firefly.”

Firefly.I don’t know why he’s always called me that, but this is not the time to ask.

He’s seen me for a whopping forty-five minutes tonight, and he already sees right through me. Richie hated this side of me. The side that spoke up or caused a ruckus. He didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, and he certainly didn’t like it when I talked back. And after a certain point, when things got bad and it hit me how truly awful my fiancé was, I knew to fall in line. The last thing I wanted was to make him mad.

“You don’t know me,” I sass. “So, stop trying to pretend like you do.”

Even though I avert my eyes to the floor, I still feel his stare on me. The tension is so thick in this bathroom; it’s suffocating. All these years later, and still, Smith Sawyer has the ability to get under my skin and make my heart feel like it’s under attack.

His fingers reach out, tugging at the hem of my shirt, and as a reflex, I lurch backward, hitting my back against the wall.

“Jesus Christ, Gemma, it’s me.” The words sound like a plea, and he looks pained. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Every bit of the cockiness he had in his tone when he first came in here is gone. He keeps his hand on the fabric, and my heart races, but I’m ready to fight. As he unhurriedly lifts my shirt, I land a punch to his stomach to try to stop him. It’s too late because even though my shirt doesn’t lift all the way, it’s enough for him to see the dark and angry bruises on the bottom of my abdomen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses sadly, pulling his hand away before I yank the fabric back down and cover myself up.

For a few moments, we just stand there. Me looking straight ahead with my heart pumping in my chest and him growing visibly more pissed off by the second. His hand reaches out to me, and he timidly pushes my chin upward in an attempt to force my eyes to meet his.

“Look at me,” he mutters, keeping his fingers against my flesh. “Please.”

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