I stand there, stunned. Frozen.
“Don’t you think you should’ve asked me what I wanted before deciding like that, Donovan? You don’t just get to decide things for us and expect me to fall in line. This wasn’t your call to make. You should’ve fucking asked me first.”
I push him away just enough to open the car door, slide inside, and lock it. Then I pull out of the parking lot, tears already slipping down my face.
Donovan
Istand there in absolute shock as Stella tears out of the parking lot, tires screeching like a warning shot straight to my ego.
Make a grand gesture,Mac said.
Women love grand gestures,Mac said.
What the hell does Mac know about women and love, anyway?
He’s just a lonely ranch hand whose only real talent is making women orgasm—and even that, I’m starting to question.
I drop into my car and scream, full-throated and raw, slamming my palms against the steering wheel like it’s personally responsible for the disaster I just caused.
The fury needs out.
The guilt, too.
When I finally look up, an older couple is standing in front of my car, mouths agape like they’ve just witnessed an exorcism. Honestly? That’s not far off.
I pick up my phone and call Stella. It rings, then goes to voicemail.
I call again. This time, it goes straight there.
She’s ignoring my calls.
I pull out of the parking lot and make a left across traffic, heading home. But before I’ve gone more than a block, I’m making a U-turn. I need to see her. If she’s home, maybe we can talk this out face-to-face.
If she really doesn’t want me to move to Virginia, I won’t go.
Ten minutes later, I turn onto Stella’s street and pull through the driveway gate. Her car’s parked in its usual spot, but her bedroom light is off.
I head for the kitchen door, about to knock, when I hear something crash in the garage, her studio.
I turn on instinct and walk quickly to the door. Light leaks from the crack at the bottom, a soft glow warming the concrete. Music filters through, low and steady, familiar.
I pause.
I can almost see her in there. Standing in front of a canvas, paint streaks on her cheek, brush moving in those slow, practiced strokes. Crimson paint. Always crimson when she’s trying not to feel too much.
I don’t knock. I let myself in.
The sight nearly knocks the breath out of me.
She’s sitting on the floor in front of her easel, hands covering her face, tears pooling around her like she’s unraveling from the inside out.
My heart pounds as I cross the room in two long steps. I drop to the floor beside her and pull her into my lap without thinking. My own tears are dangerously close.
She clings to me, arms wrapped around my shoulders, legs curling around my waist like she’s holding on for survival.
I just hold her.
She sobs harder, her body trembling against mine, and I don’t rush her. When her cries finally begin to slow, I pull back just enough to cradle her face in my hands. I kiss the tip of her nose gently.
