Page 162 of The Grand Ruin: Lance & Scarlet-Part One

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “I should’ve spoken to you after… after everything that happened. I should never have just ignored you.”

I frown. “Why did you?”

He blows out a harsh breath. “I had some things… with my sisters and your brother’s business.” He pauses as if he doesn’t want to tell me any more than that. “It messed with me for a bit.” He stares through his windscreen, frowning, and I can feel him fighting with himself to not look at me. Something tells me whatever kept him from me is still keeping him from me now. “I’m sorry, Scarlet. You deserved so much fucking more than that.”

A lump forms in my throat, unexpected and not welcome. I’ve rarely cried since my dad died. But sitting here and listening, feeling every word out of his mouth—that he means them, it hurts. “We’re good at this, you know.” I blink rapidly to rid the emotion gathering in my eyes. “Going a whole-ass year without seeing one another.” I smile, trying my hardest to lighten the mood, but now all I can think about is the first time he danced with me at the Hamilton Gala. “You seem to pop back up every single time.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling forward when the light switches to green. I wonder if he’s thinking about that night too. Or any of the ones that followed. “Were you hoping to get rid of me for good this time?”

“No… but I wasn’t prepared to see you today.”

He finally looks at me, his green eyes homing in on me. “Me neither.” He tips his chin at my lap before clearing his throat and forcing his stare back to the road. “What’s that?”

I raise my brows and dig my fingers into the hard edges of the diary. “It’s my mother’s diaries. Her original ones.”

He does a double take at them. “I thought they were ruined?”

“They were. Dad kept them, and I found them after he… I found new entries, ones she wrote for me and Mase over the years. They’ve been incredible to read.”

“Shit. That’s amazing, Scar.”

“Yeah,” I say absentmindedly, my eyes not leaving him. I decide to give him a little more, if not just to hear the light in his voice again. I’m pretty sure it could see me all the way home. “I started writing in them. I write to her.”

“What do you write?”

“Everything. Anything I do. Feelings. Fears. My good and bad days—mostly after a shift at the hospital. I tell her everything.”

All the things I used to tell you.

I wonder how many of those nights he remembers. The hours we spent in the meadow, the lake, and in my bed. How much does he really remember of it? Because I can’t seem to forget.

“I miss all of those things, you know.” His voice echoes into my thoughts like soft thunder in the distance, setting my heart racing when he adds, “Everything.”

I still in the seat, barely managing a swallow as his hand grips the steering wheel painfully tight. “I—uh—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” I go to open my mouth, but he carries on. “I wouldn’t let it mean anything, no matter how much I want it to.”

I frown at him, not understanding why he’d say that.

He gently shakes his head, clenching his jaw. “Please. Don’t say anything, Scarlet,” he mutters, sounding pained.

I sit in silence for the remainder of the drive home, not daring to even look at the man by my side. He’s a solid wall. Nothing like I remember.

When we pull up to Lowerwick, I don’t wait for him to open my door, getting it myself. I meet him at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.

And it’s the tortured look on his face that tells me to invite him in. Extend the olive branch. “You’re welcome to come inside.”

Say yes.

Please say yes.

Come inside.

Don’t leave me here alone.

He shakes his head no, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

My throat burns, and I advert my eyes to his chest. “Thank you… for driving me home.” Saving myself the pain of looking at him for another second, I take the steps to the front door and slip inside, kicking off my shoes and heading straight for the kitchen.

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