Page 157 of Lady and the Hitman
To lean into this again. To let Trevor be my comfort, my fix. He was good. Steady. The kind of man who remembered anniversaries and brought me soup when I was sick and called my mom on her birthday without needing to be reminded. He wasn’t flashy, but he was warm. Solid. Familiar in all the ways that mattered.
We hadn’t broken up because he failed me. We broke up because I wanted more. More fire. More edge. More something I couldn’t even name at the time.
And then Ronan had walked into my life, cloaked in shadow and mystery, and offered me the world I thought I wanted—only to reveal it was lined with danger I wasn’t sure I could survive.
Trevor, though?
Trevor didn’t need to be deciphered. He didn’t come with bloodstained secrets. He came with steady hands, and safety, and the smell of old books and laundry detergent. He came with decency. With roots. With something resembling peace.
My voice cracked when I spoke. “It would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it? If I’d stayed with you?”
He looked back toward the ocean, nodding once. “Probably.”
I let that sit. The ache of it. The weight.
“Sometimes,” he said after a moment, “I let myself believe we’re still in that version of reality. The one where we’re happy. The one where you didn’t need to chase something darker.”
I sucked in a breath. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” He shifted a little closer. “But maybe that version doesn’t have to stay imaginary.”
I closed my eyes against the sudden sting. It would be so easy to pretend I could slide right back into that old rhythm. To rewind time. Rewind pain. To choose the safe thing instead of the storm.
He shifted again, closer this time, until our shoulders touched. His warmth seeped through the fabric of my sweatshirt, grounding and gentle.
“I could take care of you,” he said, low and earnest. “Not in some macho way. I just mean … I’d never put you through what you’ve been through. I’d never make you question whether you were safe.”
It was the kind of thing any woman would want to hear. A promise of stability.
Trevor wasn’t dangerous. He wasn’t haunted. He didn’t come with a trail of dead bodies or folders labeled Lady. He came with vintage records and New Yorker subscriptions and a dog-eared copy ofThe Fire Next Timeon his nightstand.
So, why did it feel like I was suffocating?
I looked at him again, at the lines around his eyes, the soft curve of his mouth. He was handsome. He always had been. Boy-next-door kind of handsome. The kind that aged well. The kind your parents liked.
And once upon a time, I’d loved him for exactly that.
But now, sitting here on a moonlit beach with his hand brushing mine and his voice offering me a life I used to dream about, something felt off.
Not wrong.
Just … dim.
Like someone had turned the color down on a memory and I couldn’t get it bright again.
Could I live with that?
Maybe.
Trevor leaned forward, plucking a shell from the sand and running his thumb along the ridges. “Do you remember that night we got caught in the thunderstorm on Folly? You yelled at me for dragging us out to walk the pier, and then you kissed me under that broken awning like we were in a damn movie.”
I laughed softly. “You were soaked. Like a dog. You looked ridiculous.”
He grinned. “You said it was the best kiss of your life.”
“I was tipsy.”
“You were tipsy in love.”
