Page 216 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Yeah, it’s a fucking lump.
“So, thank you. I appreciate it.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, but it’s everything.
The paler complexion speaks of her worry. Of mine. This is a big deal.
All my thoughts slip away. The anger over the sales agency that Shane is still yapping on about, the disappointment that he’s back at all. I can’t think of any of that.
I can only think of Dollie and how I need her to be okay. Our gazes stay on each other as she moves with her boyfriend from this room to another.
A leashed Bubbles barks from the other room, waking me up from my morbid trance of the possibility of life without my girl here.
The damaged part of my brain reawakens as soon as she’s out of sight.
Admit you love her, or the lump will kill her.
And I just know that those words will torment me for the foreseeable future.
Because how could I admit I love her, in the way that I do… when she’s my sister.
And who would I tell that wouldn’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Because it can’t be Dollie.
She can never know.
CHAPTER 52
Ambrose—present day
The bar has an icy chill this evening, and it has nothing to do with Valaria’s frosty attitude toward me. It turned out that she was still mad, and my cocky smiles haven’t thawed her at all. Hopefully, the heater in her office will do the trick because she’s been locked in there since giving me an earful this morning as we carried boxes inside together.
I wipe down the bar, moving swiftly under the purple glow that overhangs before responding to the snapping fingers of the only customers too lazy to get up and come to the bar.
Leaving the bar unmanned, I head their way, keeping an eye on it. Thoughts of Dollie plague me the entire way.
She’s been on my mind all day. Is she okay? Is she with him? What is that secret lump?
I approach the round table and the couple on high barstools.
Pulling his eyes from some blonde, Lincoln greets me with a grin, and I match him with a false smile that my scars accentuate.
“I told you it was him, your old neighbor.” His voice is louder than the pumping music blaring some song I dislike. He takes his half-drank bottle of beer to his lips and nods my way.
His date, Dahlia Dixon, is all grown up and looks just like the adult version of her younger self. Spoiled and unimpressed with her company—that’s exactly how I remember her. She has a few laugh lines now, and I’d say they’re from all the times the discomfort of another person brought her joy, but I really hope she’s grown out of that behavior.
She shifts in her seat uncomfortably as her eyes roam over me, moving more slowly over the scars on my throat. Her face remains blank, no smile or snide giggles that’ll add more lines.
Maybe I shouldn’t have judged her so harshly.
“Did you hear the screams that night?”
No, I should have. Because why would anyone want to date Lincoln?
“What—no. I didn’t hear anything.” Her wide eyes fly to her date, her head and body shaking.
Dahlia quickly downs her white wine martini, which, I’d guess, is an attempt to calm her nerves.
