“This isn’t about revenge.”
He brushes my jaw with the back of his knuckles.
I lean into his touch, the gentle reassurance of it. “It’s not about Max. It’s about us.”
Pain slices over his face and he drops his hand. “There is no us, Hanna.”
“I don’t remember making that choice. Just—”
His expression hardens. “There was no choice. Not about me. It was never a choice between me and Max. The only choice you had to make was whether to take Max back or not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I never offered you what he did. The life, the marriage, the commitment. The happily-ever-fucking-after. I can’t. I won’t. It wasn’t a choice between him and me because I wasn’t offering you those things.”
I wilt and back away from him. If our relationship was purely physical, why do I feel this way? “You and me? This? It was just about sex?”
“Not even at first.”
“Then how—” I squeeze my eyes shut as the memory crashes over me and the understanding right along with it.
It was never a choice between two men.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “You have no idea how sorry.” Water sloshes as he stands and climbs out.
I follow numbly, not sure what else I’m supposed to do with myself.
He hands me a towel but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Come on. You can sleep in Janelle’s room.”
Into the house and back up the narrow stairs, he leads me to the room where Jamaal ushered me upon my arrival.
After clicking on a lamp, Nate disappears into the closet and returns with gray cotton pajamas. “These should fit,” he says. “You can stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome.”
I’m still reeling from the memory. “I feel…really stupid.”
“Don’t.” He tilts my chin until I’m looking at him. Then he drops his hand quickly, as if touching me costs him. “Please don’t.”
August—Five Days Before Accident
THE DELICIOUS smells of bacon, cinnamon, and pastry dough wake me.
I roll over and stretch, my body spent in that most delicious way, my muscles singing with happiness. If a weekend in bed doing everything but making love makes me feel this good, how good would I feel if Nate would sleep with me?
I don’t want to go back to New Hope. I want to stay here in LA in Nate’s big-ass house, where life seems less like this ominous dark cloud waiting to be confronted and more like when I played pretend as a kid.
I climb out of bed and head to the b
athroom, where I wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to calm the worst of my bed-head. After throwing on a robe, I head down to the kitchen.
Nate stands bare-chested and beautiful behind the island, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his competent hands chop apples and peaches and throw them into a bowl. Behind him, bacon sizzles on the stove, the smell incredible.
My stomach rumbles.
“Looks like you’re cooking for an army this morning.”
He looks up, noticing me for the first time since I entered the kitchen. His eyes light with his smile. He wipes his hands on a towel and skirts around the island to pull me into his arms and kiss me soundly. When he breaks the kiss and steps back, I have to grab the edge of the counter to keep my balance.
If only this were real life.