Beneath the Scars

His face softened—only by a small degree—but it was enough. I stepped closer to him, lowering my voice. “I was missing you. I meant to delete the files, but I forgot.”

He stared at me, his gaze still filled with distrust. I tamped down the hurt I felt over how easily he could doubt me, remembering how fragile his trust still was in people: in me—in us.

“I was being silly. I’ll erase it.”

His voice was tight. “If you want to know something, ask me.”

“I will. I never did it to hurt you.”

“I don’t like to look at those pictures or remember the person I was back then.” He drew in a sharp breath. “I didn’t like that person. I might have been good-looking, but inside I was rotting.”

“I know.”

I edged closer, glad when he didn’t back away. “Your eyes were dead in those pictures. You looked so removed in them.” I lifted my hand up, the motion slow so he knew what I was doing, and laid it on his cheek. “Your eyes are alive now. They speak to me.”

“You brought them to life. You brought me to life, Megan. I can’t”—he swallowed—“I can’t stand the thought of you being anything but what I think you are: sweet, honest, and real.” He shut his eyes as a shudder racked his entire frame. Pain and worry clouded his vision when he opened his lids again. “It would end me if you were lying. Forever.”

“I’m not.” I stroked his damaged skin gently. “I’m not, Zachary. I love you.”

Our gaze locked, and I refused to break the connection. I wanted him to see the honesty. See the love I had for him, and him alone.

His shoulders loosened, his expression softening.

“I’ll erase it.” I held out my hand. “Give me my laptop.”

He shook his head. “I’m being an ass. I hate reminders of my past, and I overreacted.” Turning his head, he kissed my palm. “Forgive me.”

“At some point, you have to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Your trust isn’t absolute.”

“I’m trying.”

My chest felt heavy and weariness sunk into my bones. I didn’t want him to try anymore. I wanted him to believe. In himself, in me, in us.

I picked up my bowl.

“Megan—”

I didn’t turn around. “Try harder.”* * *The fire danced in the grate, the flames twisting and burning, glowing orange, yellow, and red, its heat welcome. I glanced at the door, wondering how long Zachary would be gone. He had told me he was taking Elliott for a walk, and even asked if I wanted to join him, but I said no, and for him to go without me. He hadn’t been for a tramp in the woods for a couple days, and I knew he needed a little space to think about what happened. I supposed in some ways, his reaction was to be expected—he’d always assume the worst. I was grateful this time he let me explain, and he didn’t walk away, but I hated the fact he was still so mistrustful.

With a small sigh, I picked up my laptop and clicked on the file that upset him. I scanned the pictures and clicked delete. I glanced through the pages of the book, skimming. It was rather inane, bland fodder and I shook my head at the badly written passages. It looked more like a pile of cut and pasted articles from gossip magazines than a biography. The only line that made me pause was in the last chapter where the author claimed that Adam Dennis’s disappearance would be a hot topic for years to come. The book stated the desire for the real story of why he left Hollywood and what really happened to his co-star was a mystery that would never die. I frowned, wondering if that still held true. I knew how much Zachary valued his privacy and distanced himself from his past. He’d hate the thought of being thrust into the limelight again—the entire new world he built for himself destroyed. He lived in constant fear of exposure and ridicule over his scars. The thought of the real story coming out filled him with dread. Groaning, I deleted the book, reminding myself the next time I decided to drink, not to have my laptop close.

The search engine Zachary had been using was still open. I clicked on history and found the name of the paint for which he was searching. Starting a new request, I typed away and twenty minutes later I was successful. The paint was located and I could have it shipped to the gallery in two days. I rubbed my hands together in glee and placed the order, emailing a copy to Ashley so she’d know to play along when Zachary talked to her about it. Somehow, I’d find an excuse to take him into town, and pick it up as a surprise. Instead of discussing it with Ashley, she could hand him the package. He’d be thrilled.