Текст книги "Sweet Obsession "

Автор книги: J. Daniels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

MASON

The door closes behind Joey.

Wincing through the pain tightening in my skull, I try and sit up, try and get out of this godforsaken bed and into the shower I desperately need, but the knife prying my head apart twists an inch deeper, lighting a fire along my scalp.

“Fucking hell,” I groan, grinding the heels of my hands into my eyelids and falling back onto the bed.

This bloody hangover. I can’t remember ever having one this awful before. Not even during the three years I spent at university.

Think you’ve outdone yourself, mate. And over the woman you love. Good on ya.

I close my eyes, hard, needing to see her, giving into this agony. I can’t fight it. I don’t want to.

Brooke touches my hand, looking up at me, smiling the way she always does with those dimples caving in her cheeks and that warm flush blooming across her face. Her big hazel eyes burning, the gold flecks dancing in the sunlight. She slides her hand along my palm, moving her fingers between mine and squeezing.

Squeezing.

Taking and laying claim.

Mine, she’s saying.

My breath grows thicker, slow moving in and out of my lungs. My pulse is wild. I need to hold her.

Reaching out, lifting her chin so I can see that sweet face again, I startle at her appearance.

Big tears fall down her face, her lip trembles. She lets go of my hand and we’re suddenly feet apart. I’m at the door, my hand on the knob, my body shaking so badly the hinges rattle. I hear her voice behind me, words broken apart by sobs, telling me I never mattered and that this meant nothing. She hates me.

“I will hate you for this!”

My eyes flash open. Wetness beads on my lashes. I wipe it away and flip over, groaning into the pillow and breathing anxiously against the sheet.

She said it. I didn’t imagine that. She said it after confirming my biggest fear, that she never loved me. That it was all a lie, and I believed her.

Hell, it makes sense. Brooke was fighting me from the beginning. We wanted different things. She knew what I was after, and she figured out what she had to do to get the one thing she cared about.

Only . . .

It felt different. Pretty early on, it felt like maybe sex wasn’t the only thing she cared about.

She wasn’t pushing it. She wasn’t grabbing my hand and hurrying us, getting what she wanted and getting rid of me. She was holding on and standing still, letting me lead her, trusting me, hesitating at first but finally opening up and slowly becoming the one to reach out. Saying things to me I was feeling. Even when I limited what we did because I knew my willpower with her was and always will be shit, she kept our pace. She was with me. She was willing.

She was mine, or she was a damn good liar.

Why would she tell me I never meant anything if it wasn’t true? Because I hurt her? Because I reacted?

That disc. God, fuck, that disc. I never should’ve picked it up. Never should’ve played it, not without asking Brooke what it was first. Just knowing about it, I could’ve gotten past that and enjoyed my night with her. I could’ve pretended it didn’t exist.

Maybe.

The truth is, I don’t like thinking about Brooke with anyone else. Ever. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to run into some drunk tosser who’s been with Brooke and makes it bloody known he’s been with her, and I sure as fuck don’t want to see it happening.

Watching her with some other bloke, seeing his hands on her, touching what’s mine, thinking in that moment he has her when he never fucking came close, yeah, I reacted. I reacted how anyone would react seeing something like that.

Seeing someone you love taking pleasure you aren’t giving.

I was angry. Murderous. Rage running in my blood, and the pain, fuck, that was the worst of it. I ached in my bones. There was a hole in my chest, I was sure of it. Bile singed the back of my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

I looked at Brooke and all I could see was her with him.

I looked at Brooke, and all I could see was the woman on that disc, not the one I knew.

Not the soft, vulnerable woman I had in the alley. Or the shy one giving me a first in that photo booth. Not the Brooke who laughed and played with me, or the one who told me she loved me and that she was mine.

“Yours,” she said that day. “I thought I was yours. I want to be.”

Did I imagine it all? Did I imagine the hold she had around my heart and the tie I felt to hers? Did I imagine this Brooke?

I looked at her, and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I gave her my anger and my pain. I spoke without consideration. I reacted.

I reacted, asking something I was sure of minutes before.

I wassure.

She was crying. I knew she was, but I barely saw her tears. I couldn’t focus on that. Then she spoke and her answer gutted me. Her truth.

Only . . .

What if it wasn’t? What if Joey is right? What if we were both saying shit we didn’t mean, both of us reacting, being rash and thoughtless of the other person. Not seeing each other’s pain and only feeling our own.

Is it possible?

Fuck . . . is it?

He said she’s been crying all weekend, that she’s messed up over this. Why would she be messed up if I mean nothing to her? If this was always nothing?

Closing my eyes again, I see her face, her broken, agony-stricken face, covered in tears I’m now focusing on for the first time. Really focusing on. Her pink lips trembling and her entire body shaking.

Shaking like mine.

She was shattered. Fuck, she was. I couldn’t see her suffering. Not while feeling my own. It blinded me, but now I see it. She was crushed. Devastated. Because of how I spoke, how I looked at her. My reaction ripping her apart, and my question . . .

My question destroying her.

“What do you think?” she asked me, begging me with her eyes to speak the truth for her. The only truth she wanted to say, but I didn’t. I gave her nothing because I couldn’t. I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t see my Brooke.

“She loves you. Fix it.”

I gave her nothing, and she gave me everything. Me. No one else. She chose me.

She chose me.

A shuddering breath bursts from my mouth, blowing hot against my face.

My Brooke.

My Brooke . . . she chose me. She loves me.

Loves. Me.

And I’m the one who made her feel like she never mattered. I’m the one who treated her as if she meant nothing that day.

I’m the one who made her feel like a whore.

Pain sears in my jaw as I grit my teeth.

What have I done? What the fuck have I done?

WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE?

I need to see her. Need to talk to her. Need to hold her.

Groaning, feeling a thousand needles stabbing my skull and acid churning in my gut, shredding the lining of my stomach and burning my intestines, I ball my fists and try and push off from the bed.

I get an inch. Maybe. Pain doubles me over. Scorching pain behind my eyes, in the center of my chest, blooming out to my limbs, my fingers. I feel it everywhere. I roll onto my side and hold my head. I taste bile in my throat.

I have been doing nothing but drinking the past two days. Drinking and missing Brooke. Drinking and wondering if she was always too wild for me. If maybe we were doomed from the start.

Was the sole purpose of meeting this woman to show me everything I ever wanted, and everything I would never have? Is the universe that fucking cruel?

I couldn’t answer that this weekend, or maybe I didn’t want to. Fear bonded to my tongue and imprisoned my mind.

I have no problem answering now.

Impossible.

Impossible, because I love her wild. It was always part of the attraction with Brooke. I love her rough edges and her sharp tongue. I love the woman who pulled me into that photo booth as much as I love the one who shyly came against my mouth. The sheep and the wolf. It has always been everything about this woman, her unbridled desire and the soft, sweet way she gentles for me. Her darkness and her light. I want them both.

I will always want them both.

We were never doomed. I didn’t move to Chicago to open my own studio. That’s not what brought me here. I moved to Chicago so I could find her.

That disc, it means nothing. He never had her. No one has ever had Brooke the way I have. No one ever came close.

I pinch my eyes shut and stay on my side, not moving. I breathe tensely through my nose. The pain decreases to a bearable throb.

A few minutes pass and I’m trying again, sitting up and then immediately collapsing back down when the room starts to spin mercilessly.

“Fuck!”

I roll onto my stomach and bury my face into the pillow. I feel my heart everywhere. In my skull, pounding, the echo radiating along my scalp and down my spine. In my chest where it aches, it doesn’t beat. It won’t beat there, not until she’s with me.

Not until I have her.

It’s probably for the best that I’m too sick to move. I know I look like shit. Probably worse than I feel. If I were able to get out of this bed, there wouldn’t be anything stopping me from going to Brooke right now, not waiting and getting myself together. A change of clothes at least.

No. I wouldn’t wait for clothes.

She deserves better than this version of me coming to her and begging for forgiveness. I need to sober up first. Shower. Fucking shave.

Christ, I’ll probably scare her looking like I do.

I need to do this right. I won’t be selfish right now. This is for her, not me.

Tonight. Tonight will be better. Or tomorrow after I get a decent night’s sleep and go long enough without a drink that I don’t reek of alcohol. I can see her in the morning, first thing. I can meet her at work, or at the coffee shop, or . . .

My gut tightens. Rosie’s.

Yes. Fuck, yes, tomorrow is Tuesday. Our breakfast, the one morning Brooke agreed to give me.

I still want it. Does she? Will she show up? Will she be hoping I’m there, even though I hurt her and she has every right to hate me?

Anxiety soaks into my bones. My heart rattles in my chest.

God, if she’s there . . .

Fuck it. I might ask her to marry me before I get my apology out. I won’t be able to stop myself.

No. Come on, mate, she deserves to know how sorry you are. Give her that first.

An extraordinary serenity warms my skin. I’m so close. So close to seeing her. If she shows up at Rosie’s or not, this unbearable agony ripping me apart from the inside out is nearly extinguished because either way, I’m getting my girl back tomorrow.

And I’m never letting her go.

Swiping my arm along the bed, I grab the furry leg of the bastard stuffed koala and pull him against my side, squeezing him.

Only one more night in the tent without her.

BROOKE

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I know what I should be doing. I should be sleeping, or at least trying to sleep. I could use more than what I’ve been getting, which is turning out to be only a few hours a night. Not nearly enough. I’m exhausted. Physically and mentally. It distracts me from the pain a little so I’m okay with being too tired to care about how I look, and nearly too tired to care about anything. But since I am awake, and showered, at least half-way put together, I should be walking in the opposite direction on Fayette street and heading into work, but I’m not.

I’m walking past the coffee shop, down the street a little further toward those yellow umbrellas.

Why? Why am I doing this? I need all of the practice I can get, every spare minute I have to work on those flowers, and instead I’m wasting my time going to Rosie’s because it’s Tuesday.

It’s Tuesday.

Mason wanted this day so badly, this breakfast. Me, early in the morning, and I know he isn’t here. I know it. I know it just like I know that at some point today I’m going to hear that door chime and hope that it’s him, and it won’t be. And then I’m going to cry, and throw something, and scream a little. I’m going to miss him and hate him and love him because I can’t turn that off yet, and I’m afraid I won’t ever be able to.

I’m more afraid I’ll never want to turn it off, and I’ll keep doing this.

I know he isn’t here, but I can’t turn around. I can’t stop myself from crossing the street and stepping up onto the sidewalk. It’s programmed in me to look for him, to hope that he’ll be here. To hope that he’s still with me.

A shuddering breath fills my lungs. My eyes won’t stop watering. I can avoid this torment. It isn’t too late . . .

My body moves without thought. I scan the line wrapping around the building before stepping inside the busy café.

The young hostess looks up from her podium, ready to greet me, but I avoid her eyes and shift my attention around the room.

“Good morning. Is your party already seated?”

I hear her question as I study the faces in the booths along the window and the tables spread out along the floor.

Be here. Please, be here.

I take a step closer to look again, and again. One last time.

He isn’t here, and I knew he wouldn’t be, so why am I crying? Why?

The first tear slides down my cheek. I focus on the hostess and shake my head, biting at my lip. She gives me a concerned look. I need to get out of here before this becomes yesterday at the coffee shop all over again, where I sobbed uncontrollably the entire time I waited for my order.

I got a free muffin out of it, which was nice. Not that I had the appetite to eat it.

Spinning around, I push through the door and run straight into someone, bumping into their chest.

“I’m s-sorry,” I mumble, wiping at my face and moving to sidestep them.

Large hands squeeze my shoulders. “Brooke.”

My stomach drops. I look up at the person holding onto me, but I don’t need to. I know that voice. That low, relaxed voice. It pours over me like sap sticking to a tree. My bones suddenly feel heavier.

Mason studies me with parted lips and absorbing eyes. “God, I’m . . .” he pauses, moving his hands down my arms, squeezing gently. “It’s really good to see you.”

I blink up at him. “You’re here,” I whisper in disbelief, looking all over his face, waiting for him to vanish and for this to be just another layer of my nightmare. A cruel joke my heart is playing on me.

“Where else would I be?” he asks, smiling a little. “It’s Tuesday.”

My lip quivers. I don’t know what to make of this.

He’s here. He’s here, and he’s touching me. He’s smiling. The man who wouldn’t listen to me, who would barely look at me three nights ago.

The man who believes I never loved him and that everything I said was a lie. He’s here.

I wished and wished and wished for this, and now I suddenly can’t breathe.

I step back and his hands fall away.

“I can’t do this,” I utter, pushing past him and darting across the street.

I don’t know how to do this.

“Brooke!” Mason’s voice calls out behind me. He sounds urgent. I know he’s following.

And I run faster.

I pass the coffee shop, dashing in between people walking on the sidewalk. Knocking into several of them and blurting out an apology between hasty breaths.

Mason calls out again behind me. He sounds closer.

Tears sting my eyes as I push myself to move, to not let him catch up.

What am I supposed to say to him? I want to collapse into his arms and I want to scream into his face. I want him to hold me and I can’t stomach the thought of him touching me. I’m so confused. He isn’t supposed to be here.

Why is he here?

My breath is stolen from my lungs when my toe catches on something. The crack in the sidewalk. I don’t see it. I go down hard, smacking the concrete with my hands bracing my weight and my knee dragging along the cement.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” I cry, rolling onto my side and pulling my knee to my chest. The pain is instant and unforgiving. Flesh is torn open. My hands burning and cut up from the concrete, blood beading on my palms, but my knee, Jesus, my knee feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuck! Ow. Ow. Ow.”

Mason crouches down beside me, a bit winded. Concern tightening his features.

“Shit. You all right? Let me see. Come here.” He tries to slide my jeans up my leg, my bloody knee visible through the hole ripped in it.

I brush his hands away, sitting up and wincing. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s n-nothing.”

Mason grabs my ankle. “Brooke, you’re bleeding. Let me just check it. You hit the ground pretty hard. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just need to see your leg and make sure this isn’t serious.”

My chest shudders. I drop my hands to my lap, my palms burning.

“You already hurt me,” I quietly reply, surrendering and slowly stretching out my leg for him.

His lips pinch together. We stare at each other, and he looks like he wants to say something in response but he doesn’t.

Using gentle hands, he pulls my jeans up my leg and over my knee, making sure to keep the material away from my broken skin. He bunches my pants on my thigh.

I inhale a sharp breath when his warm hands hold my leg, his thumbs pressing and sliding around the tender area.

The world blurs around us. Heat blooms at the base of my spine.

God, this shouldn’t feel good. I’m injured. This really fucking hurts.

Focus on that, Brooke. You could’ve died. The sidewalk almost killed you.

This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. You’re not enjoying any part of this.

I repeat that mantra in my head as he continues to examine my leg. Thoroughly examine it.

He massages my ankle, my calf. He pops my sneaker off and presses against the bones in my foot.

My toes curl. What is he doing? I didn’t hurt my foot.

“Mason.” I try and pull my leg back.

“Just checking,” he says, smirking a little and popping my shoe back on.

Bending down, he squeezes my leg and blows softly against my cut, watching me with those bright blue eyes while he does it.

My breathing quickens. I don’t know whether to cry or moan. I decide on a strange mix of both, which luckily goes unnoticed thanks to the car horn down the street.

“This hurt?” he asks, forcing my knee to bend and then straightening it. He repeats the motion.

I shake my head. “No. It just stings where it’s bleeding. And it hurts around my knee-cap.”

He nods slightly. “Good. It looks like it’s just scraped really bad. You might’ve bruised the bone a little. You should be fine. No major surgery needed, I’m willing to bet.”

“Okay.” I pull my leg out of his lap and attempt to stand. “I need to go.”

I shift my weight on the ground, trying to maneuver this on my own.

Getting to my feet on a bum leg and without the use of my hands quickly proves to be a hopeless endeavor. Not only because there’s no way I’m going to be able to do this without any assistance, but also because Mason doesn’t allow me much time to struggle.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Leaning over, he scoops me into his arms and stands effortlessly, taking my weight.

Oh, my God. What is happening?

I squeak, flailing a little. “Put me down! What are you doing? I can walk.”

“You think you can walk?” he asks doubtfully. “Relax, sweetheart. I have you. It’s a bit of a hike across the street to my studio anyway. Rest your leg.”

Sweetheart? HIS STUDIO?

He sounds so cavalier, like nothing monumentally destructive happened between us three nights ago.

Did I imagine it all? Jesus Christ, am I going crazy?

I tilt my head to look at him.

Clean shaven, freshly showered, no signs of distress or obvious heartache in his eyes. He appears well rested and as stunningly attractive as ever.

I barely brushed my hair this morning and I’m not even sure my clothes match.

All of the pain I’m feeling shifts and centralizes in my chest. I squirm in his arms.

“Put me down right now! God, look at you! You should be destroyed! You should be the one crying and miserable, and instead you look like this? Get off of me! I said I can walk. I can walk.”

His eyes widen. Agony slips over him like a cloak.

I mentally question if I just slapped him in the face somehow, flailing about like I did.

That’s exactly how he looks.

“I am,” he whispers harshly, his body tensing against mine.

I still in his arms.

“I am miserable. I have been, but I’m holding you. I’m touching you and I can’t help the way my heart reacts to that. I’m sorry. Know that I’ve been in Hell, Brooke. Know that the past few days have been the darkest of my life. Every second we’ve been apart, I’ve been drowning.”

“But you look fine,” I tell him. “You don’t look miserable.”

You don’t look like me.

“That’s only because I know something you don’t.”

“What?”

His lip twitches. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. That cut needs some cleaning out. I have that first aid kit in my loft. It has what we need.” He cradles me closer, dropping his head to breathe in my hair. “I have so much I want to say to you. So much I need to say. Let me do this first, yeah? Let me heal you, Brooke.”

Let him heal me. Is it even possible? I feel damaged beyond repair.

Closing my eyes and surrendering once again, I let my head fall against his chest.

The ground moves beneath me. I feel like I’m floating. Mason’s hold is gentle yet secure, preventing any bumping or jarring as he maneuvers us. I hear the light traffic on the street, the soft scrape of a key fitting into a lock. I smell the earthy scent of the studio and Mason’s clean soap.

I tilt my head up and rub my face into his neck. Fuck it. If it turns out I’m dreaming, I want this to be a really good fucking dream.

He ascends the stairs, shifting his arm underneath my knees. The door opens. I lift my head and look around his loft as he carries me to the bed.

It looks how it always looks. Tidy. I’m not sure you can see the floor of my bedroom anymore. I’ve stopped caring about neatness and organization. I’m barely sleeping in there anyway.

One thing seems out of place and catches my attention as he sits me on the edge of the mattress.

I stare at the tent in the corner of the room. It takes up the majority of the floor space near the window and bends awkwardly against the ceiling.

“Have you been sleeping in that?” I ask, wincing when I push my palms against the mattress, forgetting about my injuries. “Ow.”

“Yeah. I might get rid of my bed. I rather like it in there.” Mason grabs my wrists, turning my hands over to examine me. “Let me grab my kit. Don’t move.”

I watch him pad into the bathroom, his running shorts hanging low on his hips. He returns seconds later with his kit and a bottle of disinfectant.

“Would you really get rid of your bed?”

He kneels in front of me, pouring some of the liquid onto a square piece of gauze. “Depends.”

“On?” I hiss through my teeth when he presses the cold gauze against my knee. My leg jerks. “Shit. That stings.”

“Sorry. I need to clean it out. You might have dirt in it.” He lifts the gauze and blows over my knee again. Our eyes lock. “Better?”

Christ, it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.

Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Mm. A little.”

“I’ll be quick.”

He presses the pad against my skin again, lifting and moving it over my knee. I pinch my eyes shut and grit my teeth.

“You said it depends. What does it depend on?” I ask again, blowing out quick breaths and distracting my mind from the pain.

I am curious. Maybe it depends on him needing a new mattress and he doesn’t feel like purchasing another one. Maybe he’s debating on going rogue and drifting away from all uses of modern civilization.

Why would someone give up a bed for a tent?

“Depends on you,” he answers casually.

The sound of something tearing opens my eyes, or maybe it’s his response. He applies a bandage over my knee and looks up.

“Why would it depend on me?” I ask.

I watch his neck roll with a heavy swallow. He grabs another piece of gauze and pours some disinfectant on it, then holds onto the back of my hand as he presses the gauze against my palm.

It doesn’t sting nearly as bad as my knee did. I barely react to it, or maybe I’m just too engrossed in the vague man in front of me.

“Mason,” I press him.

He clears his throat. “If you want us to have a bed, or if you’re happier in the tent,” he explains as he cleans out my cut and moves to my other hand. His eyes focused on his task. “I’m not sure we can have both in here and be able to move around easily. It’s a bit tight in that corner. And I was thinking, if we got rid of the bed and set the tent up over here, we can fit your dresser and anything else you want to have. Whatever you want.”

I blink several times, trying to absorb and understand what he’s just said, but there’s no way . . . is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?

He looks up at me after he’s finished and discarded the gauze. “Do you want bandages on your hands too? I wasn’t sure.”

“Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

Mason stares at me, his expression indecipherable. He doesn’t respond.

I swallow and blush instantly. My gaze lowers to my lap.

Oh, my God. It’s official. I’m crazy. I’m imagining conversations now.

“I did,” Mason finally says after what feels like an eternity of silence.

I slowly look up.

“That’s what I’m asking. I mean, it makes sense, yeah? I’m going to spend my life with you. You’re my forever, and I thought this would be a good way to ease you into agreeing to marry me, just in case that idea terrifies you. I’ll do it proper, I swear, Brooke. You deserve that. I’m just warming you up to it.”

My mouth falls open. Heat floods my face and my neck as my eyes struggle to focus on anything in front of me. “I think I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“Well, then maybe I should stand up.”

He pushes lightly against my shoulder. “Your knee. Rest it for a minute.”

Frustrated, I swat at his hand. “Stop! Just stop, okay?” I yell, startling him a bit.

He drops his hand and nods, looking cautious.

Tears fill my eyes as I slowly fall apart. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Friday you let go of me. You promised you would never let go of me, Mason, and then I don’t hear anything from you for days. I thought this was over.” I shove against his chest. “I thought this was over! I’ve been dying and what the fuck have you been doing? Planning our life together? Are you serious?” I blink, sending fat tears down my face.

Hesitantly, he reaches up and wipes his knuckles along my cheek. “I’ve been dying too.”

“How?” I ask, watching him shift closer.

“The only time I left this room was to go to the liquor store,” he tells me in a somber voice, brushing my hair out of my face. “I’ve been drunk up through yesterday, Brooke. Black-out drunk. I don’t remember most of it. I canceled all of my classes and smashed my phone against the wall.”

“Why? So I wouldn’t call you?”

He shakes his head. “So I wouldn’t call you. God, I would’ve been bloody ecstatic if you would’ve called me. I came close. I nearly texted you a few times and I knew I shouldn’t. You hated me, but I missed you so fucking much.” He holds my face, tears brimming his eyes now. “So fucking much, Brooke. Every second you were away from me I longed for you. That distance killed me.”

I sniffle, thinking back to that night, to all the things that were said and the question that broke us.

“I fucked up,” Mason whispers, blinking and sending his own tears down his face, moving so close to me I can feel his breath on my skin. “I saw that disc, what was on it, and I . . . I lost it. Baby, I lost it. I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t hear what I was saying or how it sounded. I have never felt any of the things I feel for you for anyone else. I’ve never felt possessive before, but that night I wanted to find that guy and kill him for touching you. I would’ve killed him, Brooke.”

“Mason.” I clutch at his shirt, crying harder.

“You’re mine, and I saw you with someone else and that fucked with my head. I know I have no right to be that way. I know you were with him before you even met me, but fuck, Brooke, I feel like you’ve been mine for longer than we’ve known each other. You brought me here.” His hold on me tightens. “You brought me here.”

The devastation, the agony and regret in his voice, it’s ripping me apart. I can’t help but feel some blame for this.

And I missed him too.

I slide my hands to his face, ignoring the burn in my palms. “I’m sorry about that disc.”

“No.” He wipes away more of my tears. “I’m the one who’s sorry, Brooke. More sorry than I will ever be able to express to you. This is on me. I hate what I’ve done. I hate that I made you feel any less than how I think of you. I hate that you thought this was over. It could never be over for me. God, even when you said this never mattered and I meant nothing, I still loved you. That will never change. I will never let go of you.”

I drop my head, letting more tears fall. “I only said those things because I thought that was what you believed. I didn’t mean them.”

“I didn’t mean what I said either, sweetheart.”

Mason guides my chin up, sliding his body between my legs, cupping my face and making sure I look at him.

“I will never let go of you, Brooke. I told you the day we met that I wouldn’t be able to. I warned you then. You remember?”

“Yes,” I quietly reply, tears dripping off my jaw. “You made me so nervous. I think my heart knew who you were that day and it scared me.”

“Baby,” he murmurs, sliding his mouth over mine and pressing, melting us together.

He guides my head with his hand, tilting me to deepen the kiss, licking along my lip and moaning when I open for him.

We kiss and we kiss and we kiss, but it’s so much more than that. I can feel his apology on his mouth. I can taste it on his tongue. His sadness and his guilt, I swallow it and give him my own.

It’s the best and worst kiss of my life, because I know what we went through to have it.

I fist Mason’s shirt and pull him closer. “I like that tent,” I tell him, sucking on his lip. “Maybe enough to give up the bed.”

He smiles. “It’s so lonely in there without you.”

“Take me in there now.”

“Yeah?” He leans away. “Can your injury handle my lovin’?”

Laughing, I kiss his jaw. “You can be sweet, yeah?”

Smiling that gorgeous smile that nearly stops my heart at the same time as filling it, he stands and helps me to my feet.

“I can be sweet for you.”

Mason assists me to the tent. I can put most of my weight on my knee, but not all of it. I have a small limp. Nothing that would prevent me from doing my job.

Thank Christ.

With some assistance, I push the flap aside on the tent and hobble inside. Falling onto my hip, I grab the stuffed koala off the sleeping bag and hug him to my chest.

Oh, my God. Has he been sleeping with this? My heart might burst.