Page 56 of The Trust We Broke
“I’m calling a truce for the next few hours,” Grudge says. His voice is rough, like he’s drunk one too many whiskeys. And I remember how his lips used to taste after he downed a glass.
I shake my head. “There’s too much water under the bridge for us to do that.”
Grudge shakes his head too. “Not when it comes to you and me, there isn’t.”
He slides my jacket off my shoulders and down my arms. For all his words, there’s a reverence to his touch. The feel of his calloused palms brushing over my skin is so familiar, a shiver runs through me.
I should probably care that I’m sweaty and I don’t remember the last time I shaved my legs, but in the big scheme of things to worry about, I don’t have the capacity.
“I don’t know how far I’m going to let this go,” I say.
Grudge bites his lower lip for a second. “Me neither.”
Yet our reasons couldn’t be more opposite. He has no idea how much it broke me to divorce him. How long I grieved for him. How much of my heart he still carries with him.
Maybe that’s why Henry cheated. Maybe he could sense that he didn’t have my whole heart and went looking for it elsewhere.
And I can only guess why Grudge is unsure. I abandoned him when he needed me most, without a word.
Both of us reluctant and unsure.
Him, because he doesn’t want to be destroyed by me again. And me, because my heart may never recover if I let it believe there’s a chance for the two of us. It’s held together with pieces of string.
Grudge pauses and shrugs out of his jacket, tugs off his hoodie, then kicks off his boots and socks before opening the bathroom door to toss them outside.
As he closes the door, a blast of cooler air wafts over me.
Tell him no.
The words bounce around in my head. My brain trying so hard to stop my heart from making a reckless mistake.
But I can’t bring the words to life.
He’s wearing a black Henley and pushes the sleeves up over thickly veined and inked arms. For a moment, he moves so close, dipping his head as he moves, that I think he’s going to kiss me.
But at the final moment, he pulls back.
I see the need in his dark brown eyes, knowing it must mirror the need in my own.
Grudge slips his hands beneath the hem of my T-shirt, and I keep waiting for my sanity to kick in. But we’re both masochists, here for whatever pain we’re going to cause each other next.
He lifts my running top over my head and balls it up before tossing it into the corner. Gently, he runs a fingertip over the curve of my breast. His brow furrows for a second, and I can only imagine the mental talking-to he’s giving himself right now.
And for some reason, I want to ease him. Because this shouldn’t be harder on him than it is on me. I’ve done him enough damage.
Maybe it’s time for me to take my punishment and make this easier on him.
“It’s okay,” I say. His eyes flit to mine, and I nod. “Truce, remember?”
He drops to one knee and pulls off my sneakers and socks, and then surprises me by wrapping his hands tightly around my waist and pressing his forehead to my stomach as he hugs me hard.
Tears sting my eyes again.
This big, brave, selfless man has known enough pain. I slide my fingers up the smooth undercut, over the webbed tattoos that etch his skin, and thread them into his hair. Holding his head in both hands, I kiss the top of it.
“Luce,” he says gruffly, gripping my hips, hard.
And I kiss him again.
