Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“Hailey.” He catches my wrist as I turn away. His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling my heart pitter patter. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For not giving you everything you deserved. For everything.”
“Don’t.” I pull my hand back. “You don’t get to apologize for five years of silence in a bar booth. Not tonight.”
He lets me go. Liam’s never been one to push when pushing won’t get him anywhere.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “whoever this Knox guy is—he’s lucky. I hope he knows that.”
Something in my chest cracks, just a little.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
I walk out into the December cold without looking back.
The whole subway ride to Knox’s place, I rehearse the lies. Traffic. Chloe had a crisis. My phone died. Anything to explain why I’m showing up forty-five minutes late with guilt written all over my face and whiskey on my breath.
But when Knox opens his door, all my careful excuses evaporate.
He’s wearing a soft gray henley pushed up at the sleeves, and there’s a dish towel thrown over his shoulder like he forgot it was there. His apartment is warm behind him, golden with lamplight, and the smell of rosemary and butter drifts from the kitchen. He looks comfortable. Domestic. Like a home I didn’t know I was missing.
“Hey.” His face changes when he sees me—that instant softening, tender and open. “You made it.”
“I made it.”
He reaches for me, and I let him pull me inside, out of the cold, into the heat of his apartment and the smell of something incredible cooking. The door closes behind us and suddenly we’re in our own little world, the city locked out, and he’s cupping my face in both hands like I’m something fragile.
“You’re freezing.” His thumbs trace along my cheekbones, warming the skin there. “And you have snowflakes in your hair.”
“It started coming down on the walk from the subway.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just brushes the melting flakes from my hair with gentle fingers, tucking a strand behind my ear, his eyes searching my face like he’s reading a map. Looking for something. I don’t know if he finds it.
“Everything okay?” His voice is soft. “You look . . .”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence for him. Guilty? Terrified? Like I’m about to destroy everything?
“Just tired,” I manage. “Long week.”
He keeps looking at me, those pale blue-gray eyes seeing too much, the way they always do. For a second I’m sure he knows. He has to know. You can’t look at someone like that and not see the lies written all over them.
But then his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and he leans down and kisses me.
Not rushed. Not demanding. Just slow and thorough, his lips moving against mine like we have all the time in the world. One hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and the other settles at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. He tastes like red wine and something sweet, and he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters, like everything outside this apartment has simply ceased to exist.
I melt into him. I can’t help it. My hands find his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the soft cotton, and I let myself get lost in this for a moment. In being wanted. In being held like I’m precious instead of a problem.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His breath mingles with mine in the warm space between us. He kisses my forehead, soft and lingering, then takes my hand and leads me toward the kitchen.
“How was Chloe?” he asks over his shoulder, and the question lands like a knife between my ribs.
“Good,” I lie. “She’s good.”
He doesn’t push. He just squeezes my hand and tells me dinner’s almost ready, and I follow him like the coward I am.
The guilt sits heavy in my stomach, right next to the whiskey.
Tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to figure out how to say goodbye.
Chapter Thirteen
Knox
She shows up at 8:47, flushed from the cold and smelling faintly of whiskey.
Not wine. Whiskey.
I notice because I notice everything about her, and because during every meal we’ve shared, every bar, every late night at the studio, I’ve never once seen Hailey order whiskey. Another crack in the story Hailey texted me an hour ago, another piece of evidence I’m filing away without knowing what to do with it yet.
I take her coat, hang it by the door. “Wine?”
“God, yes.”
I pour while she drifts toward the kitchen, her eyes skating over the set table, the candles I lit and then felt stupid about, the risotto I’ve reheated twice now. She’s performing casual, but I’ve spent months studying this woman. I know what relaxed looks like on her, and this isn’t it.