“Yeah, no shit,” I agree with a bitter laugh.
He wraps me back up in his arms, and while my first instinct is to push away, I fall against him. Melt into him. I’ve had to be strong from the moment Sheriff Addison came to get me at school on that horrific day and brought me to the hospital. It was in second grade, and at first, I didn’t understand what was happening. And even once I realized my parents were gone, I didn’t cry then, not even when we put them in the ground. I couldn’t shed a tear. Someone had to hold Gram together, someone had to be her glue, and that someone has been me for twenty-one years.
But now, in Rhys’s arms, I squeeze my eyes close and let it drain out of me. The grief and pain flow from me in a rain of tears that spills down my face until there’s no more left. I set it free to be carried away by the wind.
Wiping my eyes and nose, I lean away from Rhys, feeling epically foolish. “I’m sorry.” I don’t cry, I don’t do this, this isn’t me.
He smooths my hair away from my face. “For what?”
“You have your own problems, yet I’m crying all over you.”
He traces a finger along my brow. “I’m with you, Charlotte. What problems can I possibly have?”
Perplexed, I gape at him stupidly before holding up three fingers. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you have three days before you get sucked back into a void?” I flatten my palms on his chest and gaze at him with eyes that still sting with the aftermath of an ocean’s worth of tears to whisper, “I hate that we don’t have more time.”
“How about we worry less about the number of days and focus more on living the fuck out of the time we have left with each other?”
My God, this man. If I could love someone, it would be him—and not because I Frankensteined him, but because he’s him.
Beautiful, glorious, powerful,him.
I wrap my arms around Rhys’s neck and give him what I know must be the most pathetic smile in the history of smiles. “Sounds like a plan, baby.”
But the hammer slams again, reminding me that time is speeding us toward a brutal inevitability we can’t ignore.
Chapter Fifteen
Day Four
It’s one thing tobean antihero. It’s another to understand what it means to be one.
Here we are, at The Scorched Page, with Rhys perched on the edge of the red wingback chair, his nose buried in a book. I pointed him in the right direction, but he pickedThe Sexy Shifter Upstairsby Mikki Saint Raven himself. Great choice. It’s a fun book by one of my favorite authors, featuring a hot-as-hell antihero with a heart.
Wonder who thatsounds like.
Heh.
We’ve been at the bookshop for nearly two hours. Rhys has already blazed past the first spicy scene and is on his second cup of coffee. Brooklyn stands half-draped across the counter, her chin on her palm, still ogling Rhys. She’s been managing the shop while I’ve been…otherwise occupied, and while I’m super tempted to spill the beans about him, I don’t. If anyone would believe me, though, it would be her. She swears she once saw a UFO. I secretly assumed she was out of her mind.
Now…?
With my gaze fixed on Rhys, I wonder if Brooklyn wasn’t crazy after all.
The Scorched Page is feminine with a vintage edge. It’s like stepping back into ye olde Victorian bookshop but with modern amenities. Thinking back to when Jason made a nuisance of himself by coming here, I recall what a square peg he seemed within these walls. Rhys, however, fits perfectly. A main male character who leapt off the page as he flips through the pages of the book, the living embodiment of power and formidability.
He’s sitting with his legs crossed, one ankle resting on his thigh. Today, a gray tank top breaks up the black of his jeans and boots. He traces a finger over his scar before tapping his chin, a frown knitting his brows. Up goes the brow for a moment, and when he uncrosses his legs, he parts them, leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, not once tearing his rapt gaze off the page.
“Where did you say you met him?” Brooklyn whispers as if Rhys can’t hear her in the small bookshop. Joshua Radin’s melodic voice drifts out from the shop’s sound system, but it’s low enough that he can hear us talking.
“Tinder,” I lie.
And yep, he may be busy reading, but he’s definitely listening if the subtle tilt of his head in our direction and the hint of an amused grin are indicators of his eavesdropping.
Brooklyn pulls out her phone from her back pocket and immediately downloads the app. “If that’s who’s on there”—she points to Rhys—“I’m getting on there too because, come on, the pickings are slim as fuck around here.”
“Yeah, no shit.” But I’m quick to add, “Rhys is one in a million. A unicorn. You won’t find another like him, trust me.”
With a resigned sigh, Brooklyn sets down her phone. “Probably not.” Then, with a nod and a wicked grin, she asks, “So, when’s the wedding?”
