Hannah kissed Fox’s shoulder and rolled to the side, climbing off the bed.
Outwardly, she appeared calm, but on the inside her pulse was going a thousand miles an hour, a trench digging itself in her stomach. Fox sat up and watched her through bloodshot eyes as she dressed in jeans and her Johnny Cash T-shirt, eventually dropping his head into his hands, fingers tearing at his hair.
She zipped her suitcase again and stood in front of him, working to keep her voice even, though the effort didn’t quite pay off. “I’m not giving up on us.”
His head came up fast, eyes searching her face. With what? Hope? Shock?
“Yeah, um”—she swallowed, gathered her courage—“I’m not. Giving up on you. On us. You’re just going to have to deal with it, all right?”
He was a man afraid to swim toward a life raft. She could see it.
“What happened since you left me?” she whispered, fighting the urge to stroke his face. His beautiful face that looked torn and haggard for once.
Fox pressed his lips together, looked away. Spoke in a raw voice. “It didn’t matter. It was never going to matter how qualified I am for the captain’s chair. How well I can manage the boat under pressure. No matter what I do, I’ll just be someone they mock and doubt and criticize. Someone they can’t respect or take seriously. A hall pass. The backdoor guy. And that will extend to you, Hannah. Your waters are clear and I’ll muddy them.” He massaged the center of his forehead. “You should have heard how horrified they were. Over us. I knew it would happen eventually, but goddamn, it was worse.”
With every fiber of her being, she wanted to cradle his head to her breast and be gentle. Be supportive. If he’d been pushed into breaking up with her, whatever his crewmates said must have been bad. Really bad. But he didn’t need sweet and cautious encouragement right now.
He needed a good, hard wake-up call.
“Fox, listen to me. I don’t care how many different beds you’ve been in. I know you belong in mine. And I belong in yours, and that’s what matters. You’re taking something that happened in college out on us. You’re taking the stupidity and shortsightedness of others out on us. The hurt they caused you . . . it’s valid. It’s meaningful. But you can’t take the bad lessons you learned and apply them to every good thing that comes your way. Because there’s nothing bad about what we have. It’s really, really good.” Her voice grew choppy. “You’re wonderful, and I love you. Okay, you stupid idiot? So when you’ve done some thinking and pulled your head out of your stubborn ass, come and find me. You’re worth the wait.”
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.