Page 42 of Wrecked

I freeze as my pulse starts racing.

I can’t go through this again. This back-and-forth is giving me whiplash.

He knocks again, harder this time.

I open the door and glare at him, words caught in my throat.

He gives me a curt nod. “Hello, Sam.”

“What are you doing here?” I’m kind of proud of myself for not falling to pieces at the sight of him.

Because he looks amazing. Angry, but amazing. He’s dressed up for a change in black trousers and a white button-down shirt. The top two buttons at his collar are open, revealing the strong,tanned column of his neck. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms.

“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.

He’s keeping his volume down, and it occurs to me he’s talking quietly so he doesn’t draw attention to his presence on this floor.

Because that would be awkward, wouldn’t it?

I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing to talk about.”

He winces as if I slapped him. “Sam.”

When he takes a step forward, I lay a hand on his chest and push him back over the threshold. “I said no.” My voice sounds surprisingly firm. “Do us both a favor and stay the hell away from me.”

And then I close the door in his face and throw the deadbolt.

Breathlessly, I wait, expecting him to knock again. One minute passes, then two, but I hear nothing. I finally dare to look through the peephole, only to find that he’s gone.

My heart sinks and my stomach knots painfully. I should be glad he’s gone. I don’t want to jump back on the roller coaster of emotional whiplash with him again.

I should be glad he listened, but I’m not.

My chest aches instead.

* * *

The next morning, intending to head down to the fitness room to get in a much-needed workout, I open my door to find a round metal tin on my welcome mat. My heart leaps in my chest, careening against my ribs as I pick it up. I glance down the hall, but I don’t see anyone.

Back in my apartment, I close the door and open the tin. Inside are homemade chocolate chip cookies layered neatly on round sheets of parchment paper. There’s a small piece of white paper on top, folded in half.

I open the note and read the handwritten message.

I’m sorry.

He didn’t sign it, but then he didn’t need to. Who else would leave me cookies? And who else has a reason to apologize to me?

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I set the tin on the coffee table and sink down onto the sofa. Pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, I attempt to stop the flow of tears.

Damn him for making me cry. Again.

Chapter 15 – Cooper