Page 81 of Rush of Jealousy

I mull Graham’s words in my head, trying to decipher their meaning. Based on his body language alone, I know he is being serious—in the literal sense. “I’m sorry you had to rescue me tonight. But I’m not your responsibility.”

His eyes flash with an emotion I cannot distinguish. He almost looks angry. “You became my responsibility the moment you crashed into my life. You knocked me off balance. I have never felt this way about another female in my entire life, Angie. You consume me. Beguile me. I’m done letting you top from the fucking bottom though. I let you have your taste of freedom this week, and we know how badly that went. I’m back in control now.”

Oh.

His honest stare bores into me. “And I’m still not done being fucking pissed at you for your stunt back there with Tanner. His actions are not your fault, but going to him in the first place—well, you should have known better.”

“I just need space to think,” I plea quietly.

“You are mine.”

His words penetrate me, but I need time to myself. Time to think and lick my battle wounds. “Please just take me back to Portland or at least tell me where we are going.”

“No.”

I pound on the privacy screen, yelling Collins’s name.

“He answers to me,” Graham responds, in the most annoyingly nonchalant tone. He loosens the strings that hang around his neck from his hood. “I know you think this is a punishment, Angie. But it’s not. I’m so spitting mad at you right now, but I would never hurt you or not put your best interests first.”

I watch as his fingers curl into fists, as if the air is his stress ball. Being taken away from the very city that keeps causing me harm might be karma’s intervention. Perhaps the time away will be good for me.

I curl my legs up into the seat, stretching the seatbelt to accommodate my change in position. I lean my head against the cold door and stare out into the emptiness. It is just trees for miles and miles. From the signs, we are still heading north. The Washington border is just a few miles away. I go back to counting mile markers and feel the hypnotizing effect of keeping my gaze peeled on the endless supply of guard rails. As my eyes droop with the weight of the day, I hinge them open and continue to force myself to count to stay awake.

16

It is the odd feeling of free falling that pulls me from my sleep. I blink a few times in the shadowy darkness as my eyes try to adjust to my whereabouts. A pillow of ultra-soft denim presses against my cheek, and it is then that I realize the dampness.

Ugh. I am drooling.

I hoist myself up from Graham’s lap, biting my bottom lip as I analyze the wet spot on his pants leg courtesy of me.

“Where are we?” I mumble, moving over to my side of the backseat. My eyes cast downward in a wave of embarrassment. “Sorry about”—I point to the darkened patch of denim that is saturated with my spit—“that.”

“Lake Chelan. And I don’t mind.”

“Really?” I look through the tinted glass window, squinting to focus my vision. I remember crossing into Washington state, but I was not following the routes closely enough to see any clues as to where we were heading.

“Yes, Angela, you can sleep on me anytime.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, that’s not what I meant. I’m just shocked you are taking me to a lake. That’s pretty far away, right?” The moon shines brightly in the clear sky. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and rub at my neck, which twinges with a dull ache from the sleeping position I was in on Graham’s thigh pillow. I don’t even remember laying my head on him. Everything is just a blur. I stare in awe at the glimpses of beautiful landscape. Despite the darkness, I can see the different shades of orange, red, and yellow on the changing leaves. It is like driving through a postcard—spatial, quiet, and picturesque.

“We are five hours from the city,” Graham comments, leaning in closer to me to see what has me so entranced.

“Oh.” I soak it in. The scenery. The excitement. It is my first time in this part of the state. I have only seen pictures.

His warm breath tickles my ear as he fixes a piece of hair to be secured behind it. “I’m glad you calmed down.”

I pivot in my seat to glare at him, knowing that his words are serious despite his relaxed tone.

“Well, I do not take kindly to being kidnapped.”

“And I do not take kindly to being called an asshat.” The corner of his lip lifts slightly, baring a few of his pearly whites. He looks sexy—and a tad bit cocky—in his half-grin and ball cap.

“Pretty sure I said asshat bastard.”

“That you did,” he says with a chuckle. “And I’ll accept my title with pride.”

I look out the window of the country road that barely has visibly painted lines. “Why here of all places?”

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