Page 31 of Parker
“Nicky,” he says, bringing my attention back to him. “Do you feel this? What we have together?” I smile at him, leaning forward to kiss his cheek in answer. “You and me, we just feel right. It’s like I’ve found the missing piece to my puzzle.”
“And you for me. I’ve never felt so cherished and wanted.” He reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. “This weekend—it’s been chaos and calm and everything in between. And I know people will think we’re mad. That we moved too fast. But I don’t care.”
His eyes meet mine, unwavering.
“The fallout is going to be difficult, but I’m serious about you, Nicky. I’m willing to risk my family, my business, and my life for us. You’re the single most important person in my life. It may only have been days, but the feelings I have for you will endure lifetimes.”
“The tide tried to trap us today. Just like my past, but you didn’t let it pull me under.” I swallow hard, emotions tightening in my throat. “I love you too.”
There’s a beat of silence. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand once. Twice. Then he says it, so softly I almost don’t hear it.
“Marry me?”
Chapter thirteen
Sophie's Apartment, Glasgow
Nicky
“Tell me again,” Sophie gushes, practically bouncing in place. “It’s so romantic.”
Her negativity toward Joel disappeared the moment I walked through the door. One look at me, grinning like an idiot, and she was all in. She could see it—I was completely and utterly besotted.
“It’s like a Hollywood movie,” she gushes. “You’re the broken ex-convict who falls for a millionaire business owner while trying to rebuild her life.” She hugs herself like it’s her own fantasy.
“He takes you into his arms, and together you heal your wounds. His. Yours. It’s perfection.” A dreamy smile curls on her lips, and she giggles like a schoolgirl.
I roll my eyes. This is the tenth version of our ‘love story’ she’s crafted in the past hour. Everyone paints Joel as my shiningknight on a white horse, and me as the damsel in distress. It makes my skin prickle.
“This isn’t a movie, Soph. I’m not healed because he looks at me like I’m worth loving.” Some wounds don't heal just because you find love, they gape open and weep.
Prison was hard.
Actually, it was fucking torture.
My sentence started the week after my twentieth birthday. Overall, the trial had been quick, because of my pleading guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility. Graham, my lawyer, steered me through the process as painlessly as possible. Sophie came to every hearing she could as moral support, but everyone else stayed away, not wanting to be connected to someone like me.
“Have you always had a temper?” Graham had asked. He sat silently, allowing me to contemplate my answer. “Take your time. It’s just us here. I need as much information from you as possible to build a defense.” He looked me straight in the eye, never mincing his words. “Getting this right is the difference between a decade in prison or life.”
I wept again. It was all I’d done since that horrid police officer slammed the cell door shut behind me.
Because of the severity of my aggression and the ultimate consequence of my actions, I had to be kept locked up until my hearing. Graham tried to argue for bail. Sophie had offered her home as a safe place, but the judge refused due to my unstable mental state.
The door was closing on my life. It felt like the bolts were sliding across to seal my fate.
“Nicky, tell me what happened that night.”
“Again?” I sighed, like he’d just asked me to climb Everest.
“Yes, again.” His voice was authoritative. “Your best chance is to listen to me and take my advice.” I tutted like a petulant school child, and he raised his eyebrows in a warning.
After rehashing the events for the thousandth time, he nodded, convinced. “This is good.” He placed his hand on mine and squeezed gently. “Your story is consistent. It’s always more believable to the judge if a defendant’s story doesn’t change.”
“I’m telling the truth,” I mumbled, my temper fizzing beneath the surface.
“I know that. You know that. But the judge doesn’t. They deal with liars in their court every day. People trying to twist a situation to ensure their release.” He drummed his fingers on the table and surveyed me quietly. “How do you feel about speaking to a psychoanalyst?”
“Like a shrink?” I spluttered.
