Inspecting it through the passing street lights, I see a splatter of blood on the coat. It’s far too noticeable. While shedding it, I lean in on a whisper. “I’ve never done anything like that.”
“How did it feel?”
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not going to cry about it.”
“Me neither.” He leans forward, his hands clasped between his legs, his voice low. “And don’t ever second guess what you just did. That man was going to end me no matter what I had in my pockets. I saw it in his eyes. He was fucking high.” He sits back in his seat, his expression contemplative. “Along with my father’s looks, I was blessed with his judgment. I know when to trust people and when not to. Usually within the first minute of meeting them.” Pulling the case from his pocket, he lights the half joint he put out hours earlier, pinching some loose weed off his tongue before he speaks. “The way I see it, there are bad men capable of doing bad things, and then there are good men capable of doing bad things for good fucking reasons.” He looks at me pointedly. “You’re one of those.”
“Which are you?”
“Incapable of being either. Eventually, I’m going to be a man in need of guys like you.”
Preston dropped me off just as dawn began to light the streets. After a few hours of sleep, duffle in hand for my flight home, I opened my door to see I was blocked in by six large boxes. At the top of the first lay a note.
Thanks for saving me the burden of packing, Wingman.
P
There was a shift between us that night. We were both aware of it. We just didn’t know exactly what it was. I never knew how instrumental that night would be in my future, but looking back now, I know it was the true beginning.
The memory flitting fresh through my mind, I stand in Cecelia’s closet, sweat gliding down my back after another long run with Beau. I pick through her clothes, curious. She’s a no-label girl. There’s not one designer in her closet. We’re so much alike in some ways and polar opposites in others. She’s simple with her taste, even as a millionaire. She’s never given a fuck about money, which she made crystal clear when she handed me her inherited Fortune 500 company, along with the profit she made from our deal, back to Exodus in full.
She never wanted her father’s money. She only wanted his love.
That’s all she’s ever asked of any of the men in her life.
I run my fingers down the fabric of one of her dresses. “I’ll make it up to you, Mon Trésor.”
I’ve never lived with a woman, or really anyone as an adult for that matter, and I find it oddly satisfying that my first will be my last. That’s only if life and time allow it. Time itself is as fucking merciless as love is—no boundaries or ceasefire. It’s an enemy. And since I’ve been back, we haven’t resumed shit.
But time is what she needs—time and boundaries—and that’s what I’ll have to give her. But is allowing space the right move? Do I treat her with fragility?
That’s not what she’s used to from me. That’s not who we are.
Grabbing some clothes of my own, I toss them on the bed and walk to her bookshelf, picking through until I see a familiar book. A new library copy of The Thorn Birds, similar to the one destroyed at the restaurant months ago.
“I guess I’ll always be the girl crying for the moon.”
Opening the small book, I thumb a few pages and palm my head when I see the main character’s name.
“Why did you name it Meggie’s?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Do I know it?”
“Intimately and from afar.”