“I live in Glidden,” I say. “Saw him running around with a girl who was definitely not you.”
I won’t go into specifics with her.
“Wait. You live in Glidden?” Her eyes narrow.
I nod.
“For how long?”
I push a breath through whistling lips. “Shit. I don’t know. A few years?”
“So all this time, you’ve been living fifteen minutes away from me?”
My palm rubs my thigh. “Not the entire time, but yeah.”
Demi leans against the arm of the couch, her hand wrapped around her forehead. “I’m sorry. This is just a lot to process. Feels like an alternate universe or something.”
I know exactly how it feels to be coasting along and lose your footing the moment the rug is swept out.
The gas fireplace flickers against a fake wooden log, casting warm shades of amber and gold around us, and we sit in silence.
For a tiny sliver of a moment, I’m flooded with warmth, and it’s not from the fire. My chest fills, expanding, and the sensation runs through me, reaching my fingers and toes.
It’s a feeling I’ve only known in a lifetime that doesn’t exist anymore.
Home.
Being with Demi feels like home.
Chapter Thirteen
Royal
I wake with a stiff neck, the hint of a sunrise peeking through the picture window across the room. Demi’s fire’s still going strong and she’s out cold, her head on my shoulder.
Carefully maneuvering myself up, I prop her against some throw pillows and cover her feet with the rest of the blanket.
Half an hour later, I’m finished shoveling her driveway when she walks out to the front porch in a robe and slippers, a white mug of coffee in her hands.
“Thought you could use this.” She brings it to me and then re-wraps her robe and ties it tight.
I take a sip of the best damn coffee I’ve ever had as we stand and lock gazes.
“Sorry about last night. For freaking out.” Demi tucks her shivering fingers under her arms as the wind blows her robe open. “You must think I’m mental.”
My lips purse. “Nah. I don’t think that about you.”
“Either way, I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She’s such a fucking Rosewood. Always apologizing, even when not necessary. Always letting her manners get the best of her.
“Don’t apologize to me,” I say. “Apologize to that pretty little Porsche who got the shit beat out of her last night.”
Demi rolls her eyes.
“How messed up am I, that I beat up the car of a dying man?” she asks.
“Dying’s a strong word. We don’t know that he’s dying,” I say. “And look, I can fix it for you. For free. In my spare time. By the time the douchebag wakes up, he won’t have a clue. It’ll be our little secret.”
She laughs. It’s good to see her smile.
I finish the coffee and hand her the mug. “Gotta go home and get ready for work.”
Demi palms the coffee cup and nods. For the first time in days, she looks at me like she might not actually hate me. Her posture is more relaxed, and her gaze is more tender.
“I’m bringing you dinner tonight.” I fish my keys from my pocket.
She rolls her eyes.
“Taking that as a yes . . .”
I wait for her to go inside before driving away. I’ll be back tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night.
I’ll be by her side every damn day for the rest of her life, making everything up to her. Being the man she deserves—the one who’ll never leave.
This time.
This time I’m here to stay.
Unless she wants me to leave.
And that could very well happen.
Chapter Fourteen
Demi
The machine breathes for him.
And all I can think about is that damn ice cream cake.
And all those other times he showed up with a little trinket just because. A locket here. A rented chick flick there. Surprise date night. A bottle of my favorite wine. A box of chocolates—sugar-free, of course, since we had to stay in shape for the wedding.
Were those guilt gifts? Things he bought to make himself feel better about his dirty little secret?
The machine is loud. Constant. Steady.
Like my thoughts.
The swelling around Brooks’s eyes has started to go down. His purple bruises are fading to putrid shades of green and yellow. He’s almost recognizable now. He doesn’t look as though he’s fading away anymore.
Brooks’s hands rest at his sides, perfectly placed into position by some nurse, I’m sure. The thought of holding them again makes my stomach twist. Those hands—the ones I’ve loved and cherished and kissed and forgiven more times than I probably should have—have been all over someone else. I imagine them knotted, twisted in the hair of some cherry-lipped girl with legs for days and a penchant for kinky sex.
I never did let him stick it in my ass, despite his many attempts.
My stare rests on the pink scar on his left hand. It’s an old one that’s been there since our senior year at Hargrove. Brooks took me on a scavenger hunt for my twenty-first birthday, and one of the envelopes was tucked deep into a thicket of bushes. I couldn’t find it, so he stuck his arm in there only to find himself bitten by a sharp-toothed rodent. It was dark, and the thing scurried away before we got a good look at it.
I’ve kissed that scar a hundred times. I’ve kissed his lips thousands. Each time was for naught.