Page 71 of Protected By the Sinner
I can’t separate the two versions of her: the one I should hate from the one I still crave like a drug.
Maybe I don’t have to decide right now.
“Forget it. The doctor said you need rest so you can regain your memory. Let’s go home. You’ll relax, and then we’ll talk about the future.”
“Home? But you said you have several.”
“No. Those are just for short trips, a night or two. I’m talking about my real home. New Orleans.”
I offer her my hand, and she looks at it, still hesitant.
But when she finally decides, she surprises me—because instead of taking it, she hugs me. “I’m scared, Beau . . . but my heart says I should trust you.”
I stiffen at first, but I don’t let her go. “Why do you think it’s telling you that?” I ask.
She tilts her head up, looking at me with those beautiful eyes. “I don’t remember anything. Not even you. But I know I’m someone who feels everything deeply. Anger, pain, sadness, joy, passion. If I’ve been following you all over the place, then it can only mean I love you.”
Chapter 32
Two Days Later
“Can you tell me something about us?” I ask, trying to start a conversation.
Beau wanted to leave Boston the day before yesterday, but the medical team thought it would be safer to wait another forty-eight hours before I flew.
In those two days we spent in his house in Boston, I hardly saw him—he asked Celia to stay with me while he worked.
“The doctor thinks you should remember on your own.”
I look out the plane window, even though there’s nothing to see. What I’m really doing is avoiding eye contact.
Every time our eyes meet, it’s like he’s trying to see through me—and I still haven’t decided if that’s a good thing.
Sometimes I feel like he’s crazy about me. There’s heat in his presence when we’re close, an intense and powerful connection. But other times, I swear he pulls away on purpose, like my presence isn’t welcome.
We’re flying to New Orleans.
According to Beau, we’re going back to his real home. The place he calls home—and the one he says I’ve never been to.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid again, but doesn’t it say something about the kind of relationship we had . . . that he took me everywhere except to his real home?
I wait a few seconds before unbuckling my seatbelt, just so he won’t think it was his answer that upset me. I count silently to fifty, and once I feel like enough time has passed, I get up.
“Where are you going?”
“To lie down for a bit. I’ve got a headache.”
He starts to rise, but I stop him with a gesture.
“No, please. Stay. I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. Probably just my body still recovering.”
I turn my back so he won’t get a chance to argue again.
Once I reach the suite on the plane, I close the door and lean against it.
What’s going to happen when we land in Louisiana?
In Boston, we slept in separate rooms and barely spoke. Now, thinking back to that day in the hospital, when I hugged him and declared the love I think I had before the accident, I feel deeply embarrassed.
