Page 94 of Come Back to Me

The words settle between us but...

I want to say it’s enough, yet it isn’t.

That letter... Those words are imprinted on the backs of my eyelids.

I knew I was waiting for him, while I also knew it was dumb. But it was only when he cut me loose that I realized how much I’d pinned my hopes on him. That kind of connection was unique—I’ve been on enough dates to recognize the difference.

Hurting, raw, wounded, the low, mournful cry of an English horn slips through my mind. Choking on it, I ask, “Are you going to arrest me?”

“What for? You brought the truck back and didn’t strip it for parts, did you?”

His serene tone fucks with me.

Why isn’t he shouting? Why aren’t we arguing?

God, he’s annoying. And unexpected. Which is part of the reason why I liked him.

Why I was falling for him.

Why Ifellfor him.

My hands plant on the shore and I tug on the little sprout of grass that’s spurted through the sand.

The urge to yank it out, then toss it at him is real, but I know my throwing skills aren’t that good, plus it’s not the grass’s fault he’s a douchebag par excellence.

“Is it really worth over a hundred thousand dollars?”

“Special edition.”

“There are special edition trucks?”

“There are.”

I huff.

Though the sun’s risen, the sky’s still moody enough that I don’t need shades. Doesn’t stop me from covering my eyes with my forearm.

“Fuck, are you crying?”

“No,” I weep. “I’m goddamn not.”

Apparently, tears are his weakness. Because the next thing I know, he’s beside me and, in short order, I’m being dragged onto his lap and he’s holding me. His arms are so strong and hislap is so solid, and the hug is exactly what I knew it would be—everything.

He holds me like he never wants to let me go, but he did.

He fucking did.

I fight his hold on me, dragging myself off his lap, almost tumbling into the water in my haste to get away from him.

Landing on my knees, I jump up, swipe my now-sandy and dusty cheeks. “I want to go back to the homestead.”

He releases a sigh but brings his hands up to his face and scrubs them over it. Dirt streaks his cheeks too, but the fact that we’re similarly disheveled brings me no comfort.

Neither does the sorrow in his expression.

I can read it as well as I can sheet music.

He doesn’t say anything though. Doesn’t try to convince me to stay or to argue that he’s sorry or anything. No. He stays silent. Doesn’t make excuses. Doesn’t agree that we had a connection. Doesn’t apologize again. Just gets to his feet and squelches over to the truck.

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