I should be fucking terrified.
I should bolt out the door and never come back.
But the damn weed mellowed my normal triggers. It muffled the coughing memories. It muted my phobia of affection.
And I moved toward her, hand outstretched to catch a few damp strands of her chocolate hair.
She tensed as I tugged the length. Even tangled from a raging monsoon, it was soft and silky, and the urge to press them to my nose and drink in her scent made me stumble.
“Wha-what are you doing?” She spun slowly, facing me, removing her hair from my grip.
“Nothing.” I blinked, doing my best to eradicate the foggy lies that everything was okay. That there was nothing to fight or fear. I’d sought this kind of high. I’d begged for it to survive her company.
But now that I swam in serenity, it took away my power to run.
Why should I run?
What would I run from?
This was Hope. She knew me. She understood me.
She won’t hurt me.
“I’m sorry.” I stared into her beautiful green eyes. The colour reminded me of the ocean offshore where the depths flickered between turquoise and emerald.
She exhaled heavily. “No. I’m the one who should say sorry.”
“There we go again.” I chuckled. “Damn apologies.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever have a conversation where we don’t use that word?”
“Doubt it.” Her hair fascinated me again, dragging my attention to the slivers of fire dancing amongst copper and chocolate. The light bulb above crackled and flickered, shutting off as another boom of thunder punched the walls.
Darkness threatened to surround us, only held at bay thanks to the solar lantern and candles. The light turned buttery soft and sensual, adding another element to the drugs in my system. Layering heat to the overriding, overpowering need I had for this woman.
The nauseating need of wanting to kiss her so damn much.
My body swayed, my tongue licked my lips, my entire existence hinged on touching her.
But beneath the haze was horror. Recurring nightmares of corpses and funerals and caskets. Images of her dead and me alone, and the sick, sick sorrow it would leave me with.
Love had killed my parents.
Love was not kind.
To anyone.
Sighing heavily, I backed up and pinched the bridge of my nose. My erection throbbed, and the lust that had been absent in my travels compounded until my entire nervous system demanded I take her.
I hated the sensation of not being in control.
I hated Hope for the loss of it.
Turning away, I murmured, “Electricity is out. The storm will stick around for a few hours at least. I’m not suggesting we sleep to avoid talking; I’m suggesting we sleep because I’m tired and need to rest.”
My back prickled as she came closer, stopping just behind me. “It’s early. Don’t you want to talk, just a little?” Her awkwardness pinched between my shoulder blades as she inhaled nervously. “I-I missed you, Jacob. Not a day went by that I didn’t wonder if you were okay or where you were.” Moving around me, she stood between me and the bed. “I want to know about your travels. Where did you go? What did you see?”
I didn’t like her in the same vision as my mattress.
I didn’t like the fantasies I suffered of tossing her down, kissing her deep, and peeling off that intoxicating white dress.
Shaking my head, I brushed past her, sitting heavily on the bed, hoping she’d take the hint and use the chair by the tiny table beneath the window.
Instead, she bit her lip, hesitated, then sat beside me.
The mattress creaked under our weight, and I remembered another bed a long time ago where she’d sat so close and berated me with questions about my concussion. She’d put up with my bullshit to drive me to the hospital. She’d cared so much even then.
Goddammit, why did she have to be so real?
Why did she have to affect me like a punch to the goddamn heart?
We sat stiffly side by side.
She gathered her hair over one shoulder, twisting the dampness into a rope. When I didn’t speak, she whispered, “I haven’t been on a horse since Cherry River.” Her eyes caught mine. “You?”
Horses. The one subject I was happy to discuss.
“No.” I shook my head. “I miss Forrest like hell.”
“You could go visit him.”
“No. He’s not mine anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Cherry River should be Aunt Cassie’s. I don’t deserve it.”
Hope stiffened. “Of course you deserve it. You’ve worked that land since you were born.”
I meant to stay silent, but my drugged consciousness decided to throw me under the bus. “I can’t ever go back.”
“What? Why?”
“Because death exists there.”
She sucked in a breath. “There is also life. So, so much life. I know your parents dying left you with a—”
“New subject.” I wedged my elbows on my knees, raking hands through my hair. “What have you done for the past four years?”