Love Story (Love Unexpectedly 3)

I want to kill him.

It’s been years since I communicated with my fists. I grew out of it sometime in high school when I realized most people just aren’t worth the trouble. This guy, though—he has it coming. Because Lucy’s worth it.

I don’t make a big production out of it. I take a few steps forward, wait until he pulls away from his new girl with a vaguely mocking What are you gonna do about it? expression.

The crack of my knuckles against his nose tells him exactly what I’m going to do about it. Always go for the nose. Sure, the right hook to the jaw makes for better action movies, but a broken nose leaves a nice reminder. And I want this dick remembering what he lost—who he lost—every time he looks at that crooked nose in the mirror.

The girl makes a squeaky noise, trying to pull Oscar’s hands away from his nose as he stares at me in pissed disbelief, but I’m done here.

I’ve illegally parked Horny a half block up on the curb, and I curse when I see that Lucy either didn’t see the car, or opted not to seek refuge there. I put my hands on my hips, trying to figure out where she could have run off to.

And if there’s a sick sense of déjà vu lurking in the back of my consciousness, I ignore it. I can’t afford to think about that now. Can’t afford to think of six years ago when the one she’d been running from was me.

That day, I’d let her go. A mistake. Not one I’m going to repeat today.

I scan the nearby businesses. Starbucks, shopping, a bunch of restaurants…

She wouldn’t go into any of those. Not while she was crying. She wouldn’t want to be seen all blotchy; she’d want space….

I immediately start heading toward the water, which thankfully isn’t hard to find in Miami.

I get to the beach, which luckily isn’t that crowded on an overcast weekday.

I see her, and my heart cracks. She hasn’t taken off those ridiculous shoes, the spike heels have sunk all the way into the sand, driving her weight backward, ev

en though her shoulders are rolled forward.

My girl looks broken, and I’m realizing that a crooked nose wasn’t nearly enough punishment for this Oscar guy.

I walk slowly toward her. My boots and jeans aren’t exactly beach friendly, but I ignore this. I ignore everything except Lucy. The gentle sound of the surf drowns out any sound of her crying, which somehow makes the tears running down her cheeks all the more like a punch in the gut.

I should have thought of something to say. Should have tried to figure out if she wants me to offer to beat up the guy, or tell her he’s not worth it, or that she’s a hundred—thousand—times more beautiful than the other girl…

None of that matters. There’s no talking, there’s not even thinking. There’s only doing, and I slowly reach out, my hand on her shoulder as I pull her around to me, my movements a little rough.

She comes easily, her face against my shoulder, her hot breath against my thin T-shirt with a shuddering sigh.

I wrap one arm around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head as I pull her close. She doesn’t wrap her arms around me, just clenches her fingers into my shirt as she buries her face against my chest.

I close my eyes and, for a minute, let myself be selfish. Let myself relish having her close once more, even though the circumstances are shit.

She doesn’t say a word as I hold her, and I wonder if she’s realized the same thing as me. That there’s nothing to say, not really. That that guy was never the one for her, that he’s not even worth talking about. He’s certainly not worth her tears, but then Lucy’s always been a bit of a crier. Not in the weepy, weak sense; it’s just how she shows her emotion. Happy, relieved, sad, excited…she cries.

She cries when she’s heartbroken too. I hope to God that isn’t what these tears are about.

My hand smooths over her back, the pads of my fingers warm against her head. Before I can register what I’m doing, my lips brush her hair. I tell myself it’s an accident, but that’s bullshit. It’s a kiss. A need for her, even now, as she’s hurting.

Hell, perhaps because she’s hurting. It’s always been my job to fix that, and I don’t know how to at the moment.

“You know the weird part,” she whispers quietly, finally breaking her silence.

I shake my head slightly.

“I’m not even that surprised. I think I knew something was off, but I insisted on doing this anyway. And you know the worst part?”

Her fingers dig into my chest, little claws, and I feel a quick sense of foreboding.

“The worst part,” she rushes on, “is that I wasn’t even seeing him as it was happening. I was seeing you. And her. All over again. And it was like I was dying inside, all over again.”