Page 51 of Jagged Line Paradise

“We’re divorced,” I add quickly, just to be clear I’m not involved with him anymore.

Andrés is fuming as he stalks toward me. “I’ll ask you again. Did youeverwork for him?”

I blink up at him brooding above me. “No, I didn’t. Not in the way you mean.”

His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “In what way then?”

“You’re scaring me, Andrés.” He’s not really, I just don’t want to deal with him being upset right now.

“Lonnie, tell me. Tell me now before I lose my fucking mind.”

My instinct is to placate, to do what I have to in order to calm him. I don’t need any more chaos in my life right now. Without saying anything at all, I close the distance between us and slip my arms around his waist. For one brief moment, he’s still and stiff, and then all at once, he collapses around me. His arms close around my waist and squeeze me tight. One of his large hands slips upward, running over my hair and cupping the back of my head, holding me still as he kisses the top of my head.

I didn’t intend for this hug to mean anything—I only wanted to calm him and end his questioning. I could get lost in a feeling like this, though. My cheek is pressed against his hard chest and I can hear his heartbeat. It’s loud and fast, but steady. It’s a tempo I can follow, a rhythm I can hold onto.

“I never worked as one of his girls,” I assure him, and I feel his instant relief as his shoulders sink.

It’s not a lie.

I never worked as one ofAnthony’sgirls—he doesn’t need to know any more than that.

I need to go back inside, check on my mom, get some rest after the exhaustion of this day. But the way he holds me, as if we could fuse into one being if he keeps me close enough, long enough, makes me feel safe.

Don’t let me go.

Please, don’t let mego.

My heart makes me speak before my mind can think better of it. “I missed you so much, Andrés. I hated you and I missed you.”

He sighs, his hand slipping down the side of my head, fingers brushing the hair from my face, though he never loosens his grip on me. “I know.”

He holds me for minutes, maybe hours. The longer we touch, the stronger the void inside me pulses, reminding me that it exists, insisting that it can be filled. Yet I’ve been empty for so long that it scares me to think of being full. I don’t know how to be whole again—I don’t even know if it’s possible. I only know that I’m more aware of the hollowness when he holds me in his arms.

He hurt me so much, yet I’m still drawn to him.

Howcan that be?

How can I still have feelings forthis man who so effectively shattered my soul?

I can feel us sink into each other, warmth growing between us, long forgotten feelings of the way we used to be and how natural it was to be together. It feels natural now, though the nature of it is more complex. We’re different people after a decade apart. The gravity still exists between us, but we’ve drifted so far apart that I don’t know if it’s strong enough to keep us together longer than the beat of this embrace, for longer than a teasing, aching hug.

There’s breath and touch between us that begs for more, but I don’t know if there can ever be more than this. He’s here now, but he’ll leave me again. I don’t even know how long he’s planning to be here.

I can’t let myself fall into his orbit.

I can’t give into him.

I don’t think I could survive him breaking my heart all over again.

It takes everything within me to loosen my grip around his waist, to pull my arms back and try to drag myself away. But he doesn’t let me go far. He grabs my face in his hands and forces my head to tilt up to look at him. He gazes down at me with his deep chocolate eyes that could easily bring me to my knees if I’m not careful.

“Meet me on Friday morning,” he says. “Eight o’clock at the Hilton on West Boulevard, just outside of town. I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m bringing you with me to interview the Millers.”

My heart stops. “Andrés, I can’t—”

His grip on my cheeks tightens enough to cause a pleasant ache. I’m surprised because I actually like the way he holds me firm, roots me, keeps me steady. Still, I know that the steadiness he offers me is a lie, a manipulation. I can feel the way he uses the chemistry between us to get what he wants from me—all in the name of his documentary. “You can and you will.” His stare only grows more intense, more insistent as seconds tick past. I know he won’t release me until I concede.

Why do Iwant to concede? Why do I want to give himthat power? Why do I do this to myself? Whydo I let men manipulate me, even when I knowit’s exactly what they’re doing?

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