Page 45 of Sassy Love
“Mr. Lawson, tell Miss Carlie the one thing you would want her to know if this was your last sentence. The last sentence you could ever speak to her.”
Sweet Jesus.
Manuel starts the timer.
Lamont wrangles the shock now slipped over her face back, and I fight to keep my expression indifferent.
I know this is a revised version of couples therapy. But even if I was sitting in front of someone I loved, this would be a hard question. With Lamont, almost impossible.
The timer goes off.
I study her face and the way she’s holding herself, rigid and ready for something that’s going to hurt. Like she’s ready to take a hit. Only two words fill my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe.
Her hands jerk. She tries to pull away. As if she won’t accept anything but opposition from me. We don’t play nice. It’s not comfortable for her.
Every small moment she’s held me accountable or challenged me sweeps in. The way she is always on, always running at one hundred and twenty percent...
“I’m sorry. If I could have helped you in that moment, I would have. Please know that.”
Her chin wobbles. Her hands rip from mine. She staggers to her feet and stalks from the room.
I turn to Manuel, and he’s smiling a sad but knowing smile. “Bingo, Mr. Lawson.”
“Shit,” I utter.
When she doesn’t return, I leave Manuel to his breakthrough. Her hair swishes as her hips sway with ferocity over the lawn toward the bungalow. I pick up the pace, lengthening my stride until I reach her. “Lamont!”
She flips me off, not slowing down.
“Carlie, stop.”
A strangled noise leaves her as she picks up the pace.
Dammit.
I grab her elbow, and she teeters as she tries to shake me off. “Slow down, for god’s sake.”
“Get your hand off me,” she grinds out.
“No.”
“I swear to god. Is this your plan? Kill me with kindness until I feel something less than hatred for you? You think if we’re friends, I’ll give up my job so you can keep yours?”
The hell?
I tilt my head, brows plummeting. “No!”
“Let. Me. Go.” Wild brown eyes flicker over my face.
I release my grip on her, and she steps out of my space. She marches into the bungalow, slamming the door behind her.
How on earth am I supposed to break through that wall she’s built around herself? At this point, I think the shelter is kind of irrelevant. The more pressing issue is the heavy load this woman is hauling around. And the weight that’s set to crush her if she doesn’t let someone—anyone—in. And soon.
I walk to the house and open the door.
She’s sitting on the side of the bed, her head in her hands.
