Page 99 of Winters Heat

“Don’t call me Winters. Can I sit down?”

“No, you can leave.”

He moved closer to the couch, as if considering how to wrangle a wild beast. “Why’d you call me?”

“Well, it wasn’t to invite you over.” Why did she call him anyway? She had no purpose, no plan with her phone call. Thank God he went all alpha-bossy on her, because she had an excuse to hang up.

“I can see that.” He sat on the far end of the couch, placing the empty box of chocolates on the coffee table. She should have addressed her heavy heart before it exploded into a calorie bonanza. She should have cried it out two weeks ago and moved on. But she didn’t, and here he was. She hated him and hated herself for loving that he was within reach.

“I’m leaving.” She tried to swallow away the tears and did a valiant job at holding them at bay. Accepting that already-made decision was what started her downward spiral to the fabulous party-of-one she was throwing herself this morning. “I’m moving. I rented my house out to a newlywed couple. I’m gone in a week. New job. New state. New life.”

Winters’s jaw dropped. “You can’t do that.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Why would you?”

“I don’t want to live in a house that was ransacked by a Colombian cartel. I came home from hell and walked into a disaster.”

“Mia, doll—”

“Don’tdollme, Winters.”

“Please call me Colby.” He growled through closed teeth, losing all the effect of his polite request.

“No. You aren’t in a position to make requests. Deal with it.”

“I’m so sick of people telling me to deal with it.”

“You’re not going to find any sympathy from me.” Mia took a bite of her dripping ice cream instead of crawling into his lap. The substitution did zip to quell her urge to scoot closer.

He leaned over to an end table and turned on a lamp, again illuminating her movie-watching, cry-fest cocoon. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the new splash of light. His face was clean-shaven. He seemed so big on her couch. Did he always wear tight shirts that made his biceps pop and pants that molded to his muscles? Compared to her frumpy pink pajamas, she looked ridiculous, and far from attractive.

“You have every right to be angry with me.”

Therightto be angry? Hell. Anger wasn’t in the same galaxy as how she felt. Anger was too simple. But she didn’t feel like describing the utter remorse sickening her, all because she fell in love with him.

Instead, she pulled herself off the couch. She had things to do, and they were far away from him. He could find his way out, like he found his way in.

“I’m sorry.”

Why did hearing that make it hurt worse? “Just leave.”

“Mia—”

“I can’t do this. Please leave.” She wasn’t going to beg. He had to go.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why?” She turned toward him, frustrated. He stood, imposing and ignoring her pleas. It was infuriating. “Why are you torturing me? You don’t get to say I’m sorry. You weren’t here when I walked into my ransacked house, or each sleepless or nightmare-ravaged night.”

“I—”

“And every day I stayed at the hospital, holding your hand, talking to you about the future. I was a fool. You told me to leave. No, correction, you had the nurse tell me.”

Pain twisted and shredded her soul. Everything between them was gone. It was irreversible. Actions had consequences, and his actions ruined her dreams.

She marched toward him, wrapped her fists in the fabric of his shirt, and did her best to shake him.

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