Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

Eyes heavy with moisture, chest thundering up and down, Fox stood and tried to wrap his arms around her, but she moved out of his reach. “Hannah. Come here, please. Let me hold you. Let’s talk about this—”

“No.” Her body ached from the touch she denied herself, but she could be strong. She could do what needed to be done. “I meant what I said. Take some time and think. Because next time you tell me good-bye, I’ll believe you.”

On unsteady legs, she turned and wheeled her suitcase out of the apartment, leaving a ravaged Fox in her wake.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fox had never been overboard, but that possibility struck fear in the heart of every fisherman. The chances of being sucked down into the icy cold drink, the air drawn straight out of his lungs, the hull of the ship becoming smaller and smaller above, land a distant memory. Yet he knew with dead certainty that meeting his demise at the bottom of the ocean would be favorable compared to watching Hannah walk out his front door, her shoulders shaking with silent tears.

He’d been so sure he was doing the right thing.

But how could the right thing make that sweet girl cry?

Oh Jesus, he’d made her cry. And she loved him.

She fucking loved him?

His feet wouldn’t move, his eyes burned, his body ached. He should go after her, but he knew Hannah. None of the words in his head right now were the correct ones, and she wasn’t going to accept anything less. Christ, he couldn’t help but be proud of the way she’d looked him in the eye and read him the riot act, even as she tore the heart clean out of his chest. That was some real leading-lady shit.

I love you more than life. Don’t go.

Those were the words he wanted to shout at her retreating back. They wouldn’t penetrate, though. He could see that. She didn’t want impulsive, emotional statements from him. She wanted him to . . . pull his head out of his stubborn ass.

The door clicked shut behind Hannah, and his knees gave out, dropping him down to the bed, not a stitch of clothing on. With his pounding head clutched in his hands, he shouted a vile curse into the silent room that smelled like her, a fishhook impaling his gullet and ripping downward, all the way to his belly. He needed her back in his arms so badly, his entire body shook in bereavement.

But as terribly as he wanted her back, Fox didn’t know how to do it the right way. He had no earthly clue how to make his head healthy for her. For them.

He only knew one thing. The answers weren’t in this empty apartment, and the lack of Hannah’s presence mocked him everywhere. In his bedroom where they’d spent nights wrapped around each other, the kitchen where he’d fed her soup and ice cream, the living room where she’d cried over her father. As quickly as he could, he dragged his jeans and T-shirt back on, grabbed his car keys, and left.

* * *

The change of scenery didn’t help.

It wasn’t the apartment Hannah was haunting so beautifully.

It was him.

Didn’t matter how hard he applied the gas pedal, she came with him, as if her mussed dirty-blond head was resting on his shoulder, her fingers lazily playing with the radio. The image struck so deep, he had to breathe through it.

Fox had no idea where he was going. No clue at all.

Not until he pulled up outside his mother’s apartment.

He cut the engine and sat there dumbfounded. Why here?

And had he really been driving a full two hours?

Charlene had sold his childhood home a long time ago and bought a condo in what amounted to a retirement complex. His mother grew up next door to the old folks’ home where her parents worked, and she’d always been most comfortable around the blue-haired crowd, hence her living situation and job as a bingo caller. Fox’s father had always made fun of her for that, telling her she would get old before her time, but Fox didn’t see it that way. Charlene just stuck to what she knew.

Fox stared through the windshield at the complex, the empty pool visible through the side gate. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been here. A birthday or two. Christmas morning. He’d have come more often if he didn’t know it was difficult for his mother to look at him.

On top of tonight’s catastrophe, did he really want to see his mother and encounter the flinch? Maybe he did. Maybe he’d come here to punish himself for hurting Hannah. For making her cry. For failing to be the man she stubbornly believed him to be.

Take some time and think.

Because next time you tell me good-bye, I’ll believe you.