Page 68 of The Prodigal

“Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

Be still my freaking heart.

I love a pent-up man acting like he’s unbothered by kissing my ass and threatening to take my virginity on the hood of his car in a public park.

This is why we work.

He’s rude and evasive, and I’m patient and intrigued.

Remington might believe all words are manipulations of truths and lies, but for me, words are just words.

They hold no truth or lie.

Spoken promises are empty shells of hope.

Words are useless.

It’s actions that speak to my soul.

Remington says he’s the villain, yet, he saved me from Gerald.

He bought me dinner.

He stood up for me in the cafeteria.

He worried that I didn’t find my necklace in the fountain.

He went along with the idea of this trip. Not because he needed proof for his revenge—or had the need for a research assistant—but because I think, deep down, he wanted an escape, too.

He didn’t want to be alone.

He didn’t want to leave me behind.

So, while he may gripe and roll his eyes at my questions, he listens, and he acts.

Remington cares.

And the yellow suitcase he pulls from the trunk is proof.

I don’t need his truth or his lies.

I know Remington is a good man—even if he disagrees.

We were meant to find each other at that motel. We were meant to take this journey, and if he decides to walk away from me at the end, I will know what it felt like to be wanted.

“Eden! Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Gracious, he’s so dramatic. “I’m coming! Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

I try to stand and pull up my shorts, but they don’t budge. “Uh.” I debate if I should continue.

“What?” Remington snaps, setting my suitcase down. “What is it now?”

He acts like I’ve been demanding this whole trip.

Newsflash: I am not the diva in this relationship.

I roll my eyes and point to my pink panties—the only thing preventing any onlookers from getting a peek at my shaved beaver. “I can’t get my shorts up,” I explain. “I’m too wet.”

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