Page 52 of Hate To Love You

I come inside her, and it doesn’t stop. It feels like I’m coming forever. I can’t stop even if I try because I can feel her clenching around me over and over again, and it makes me want to keep coming and coming. We’re both coming and coming and spasming and rocking and shaking and dying a little. I know this is possible because of my balls, but I seriously think it’s coming from somewhere else because there’s no way it should last this long. I feel like I’m coming from the tips of my fingers, the top of my head, and the soles of my feet.

I open my eyes a few seconds later because I want to watch her come down. I want to watch all that bliss and pleasure moving over her face. I want to—

My phone is on the counter right beside Patience.

And when it suddenly goes off, it’s jarring and awful.

She shrieks.

I shriek.

I fumble for it, still inside her, and we’re both still wild and not nearly on the downward trend of sweet afterglow yet. I just want to shut the thing off and maybe pitch it into a corner, never to be found again, but the name on the screen stops me.

I put it to my ear. This is one call I can’t miss, even if it’s just an update. But it’s not. This guy doesn’t mess around.

“We found her.” Nelson DeBandry’s deep voice spills into my ear. “We found Genevieve Jonesboro.”

CHAPTER 18

Patience

There’s no point in saying I’ve thought about my mom more times than I can count. It’s been endless over the years. Thoughts that number more than the stars. Even the thoughts I haven’t consciously thought of have been about her.

She’s still an older version of me as she walks through the front door, more so now than when I was a kid because I’m presently a grown woman. All I had was a photo album of pictures. I think Dad organized them all into one album for me, which I guess he was gracious enough to do even though he got that restraining order. Maybe it was a guilt project. I had some of my mom’s photos of her as a baby, her as a young girl, her as a teenager, and then way more of my parents together and ones with me in them. I knew what she looked like years ago. Just in case my memory ever started to fade, I’d refresh it with those photos. I used to spend hours and hours with that album.

The moment my mom steps through the curved wooden door, that’s the first thing I notice. How much she still looks the same. I’m blown away that her light blonde hair is still the same wheat color. I know it’s probably impossible that it’s not dyed, but whoever did it made it look just like her old shade—the shade I could never, ever forget, even if I didn’t have the album. Her eyes are still the same light green, with the darker spokes flooding her irises.

I’m frozen. I planned this moment in my head to the point where it became like a unicorn in my mind. A fantasy. A dream world. Apollo has his arm around my waist, and he’s probably the only thing keeping me upright at the moment. I think he knows that. It explains why he leans in until my shoulder is bracketed by his. I can’t fall with all his strength at my side. It’s comforting, and in a rush of tornado-crazy emotions, it’s nice to have such a solid, dependable comfort I can pick out of everything else I’m feeling and put my faith in.

It makes it easier to breathe.

Especially when my mom’s husband—a tall, slim, athletic-looking man with iron-grey hair, a dark shadow on his jaw, and dark brown eyes—follows her into the house.

Apollo opened the door when they clanged the cowbell, and then he immediately stepped back to my side. Other than his smile and his few words of welcome and come in, no one has said anything.

Jonesboro. Her last name isn’t Pullen anymore. She has a husband. And a new life in New York, where she started over again. The wedding ring set on her left hand is massive, a big chunky diamond catching the light.

My mom’s eyes fill up with tears a few seconds after she clears the door. Mine have been going that way pretty much constantly for the past four days—ever since we got that call from the guy Apollo hired. He gave us my mom’s phone number and address, and I called her immediately, even though I didn’t know what to say. It turned out that just hearing her voice was enough, and it didn’t matter that we cried together without words for a good solid five minutes before she begged to be able to come and fly out to see me.

I’m stiff and awkward now. It’s a rank state of shock, but I feel like if I move or blink, this might turn out to be undeniably not real.

Apollo runs his hand down my arm, flooding me with warmth, and then he steps forward and offers his hand to my mom’s husband. Will. His name is Will. She said that on the phone. They exchange a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to move if Apollo hadn’t moved first, but I’m moving now. I nearly trip over my rushing, churning feet as I hurtle myself at my mom.

She opens her arms, and oh my god, Mom. I’ve missed you so much. Please let this be real. She’s solid against me, and she holds me like she used to do when I was little. Mom hugs don’t change with age, and I’m never going to be too big for them. She smells different. She’s even dressed differently. She looks like a businesswoman with her skirt suit on and the designer bag hanging from the crook of her arm. She also smells like expensive perfume and her exotic life in New York.

I don’t want to cry all over her good clothes, but I cry anyway. I can’t make it stop, but I angle to the side so my tears drip all over me instead of all over her.

I’ve waited an eternity and a half for this. My mom’s chin wobbles, and then she presses her index and middle fingers to her bottom lip just like she always used to do.

There’s something to be said for realizing my mom is the same person she was back when I was little. That she never abandoned me. That she never stopped trying to be in my life. That as soon as the PI gave me her number and we could be reunited, she dropped everything, got on a plane, and came out here immediately. Even though she’s done well for herself, and even though she has super nice clothes, a huge diamond ring, and probably lots of money, she still has the same smile. She still presses her fingers to her lips the same way, her chin still wobbles when she’s trying to bite back her emotion, and she still has those same dimples when she smiles. They look just like mine. Or rather, mine look just like hers.

I hug her harder. “I’ve missed you,” I breathe, and that’s all it’s going to take, but then Will gasps, and we both get distracted, so the bawl fest doesn’t immediately happen.

“A skunk! You have a pet skunk!”

Bitty Kitty waddles into the room with her tail lifted high, proud as can be of herself. I’m so glad Will didn’t leap out the window or turn the coffee table over to hide behind it. I know how much Apollo doesn’t want another pool incident. We’ve had a few too many of those lately, including the night when I almost lost him to muscle cramps.

My heart gets super tight thinking about that, and fear shoots through me like jagged little pinpricks of ice.

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