“Like I said, I’ve missed you, Neesh. You’d asked me never to contact you, never to come chasing after you, and I’ve respected your wishes. I’ve also been . . . working on myself.” He looks out over the clearing, his brown hair sexily tousled from the wind. “I found out you were coming to town and decided to see if you’d give me a chance to talk to you. I wanted to see how you were doing.” His eyes lock with mine again. “I wanted to seeyou.”
My mouth opens to respond. I want to ask him what about himself he’s been working on or who told him I was going to be here. But what comes out is, “I told you never to contact me, never to chase after me . . . and you justlistened?”
Patton stares at me for a beat, seemingly flustered. I don’t blame the guy, because I’m more than a little flustered at my indecisiveness. I literally told the guy I didn’t want to rehash anything not even two hours ago, and here I am, asking him to do the very thing.
The thing is, I’ve always been the type of girl to say what I mean and mean what I say.
Always.
Except when it comes to Patton Pierce.
Back when we were together, I hadn’t fully grown into this independent, take no prisoners and speaks her mind version of myself. I felt like an imposter in my own body, especially as it related to him, my up-and-coming Hollywood star husband.How could a gorgeous man like him, who had every woman begging to have a place on his arm, wantme?
How could I ever compete with all those other women? How could I ever deserve him? Who was I anyway?
And then, when he started to climb that stardom ladder, and our time together was often either cut short or interrupted with phone calls from his agent, his director, his producer, or even a cast member, I started to believe that maybe all my insecuritieswerecorrect.
I started to believe that maybe I was thebefore—before the fame, before the red-carpet premieres, and before the award ceremonies.
In the end, I didn’t just walk away because of that tragic night—a night I endured all alone for the second time—but because I truly believed I was alone, invisible beside the blinding light that was my husband.
Patton exhales slowly beside me. “I tried to chase you, Little Borealis. I called you every fucking day for a year.”
He’s not wrong. He did try to contact me for an entire year until I sent him one final text, asking him to give me space, then changed my number.
And when that finally stopped him, when he didn’t try to find my new number through Piper, Sarina, or Dad, I told myself he’d moved on. That it was over.
And still, I was heartbroken that he had.
I know how irrational and contradictory that makes me sound. I’m the one who closed the door, yet I still wanted him to try to force it open.
“I even came to San Francisco to work it out, but at the time?—”
“At the time, I was wrapped up in my grief, my loss?—”
“Ourgrief,” he interjects vehemently, in a tone that doesn’t leave room for questions. “Ourloss.”
I swallow, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. It’s one of the reasons I rarely drank, because it made me so emotional.
But he’s right; he was grieving, too.
“I was so consumed by our loss that I didn’t want to see anything from another angle.” A tear escapes as I look at him. “It was the second time, Patton. Second time in two years. After everything my body had been through?—”
“I know.” He doesn’t let me finish, cupping my face with his warm hands. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”
I melt with his words as if they’re the balm I’d been searching for.
Patton pulls me against him so I’m straddling his thighs. His thumb swipes my cheek as his fingers wrap around my neck. I lean into his touch, my hands fisting his shirt.
Our foreheads meet as our breaths entangle, heavy and out of rhythm. Something else, like electricity mixed with longing, charges the air between us. The temperature has dropped with the sun setting, but my skin burns everywhere he’s touching me.
God, how long have I wanted this again? His touch, his words; my solace, my pain. He’s the only man who’s ever really known me, and likely the only man who ever will.
“Patton,” I whisper or plead, I can’t be sure.
“Shh, baby,” he coos, eyes roaming my face, cataloging every change the last few years have carved into my skin. “Let me just look at you. I haven’t seen you in so long, and I just?—”
My lips press against his, swallowing the rest of his words as my fingers carve through his hair. For a short breath, neither of us moves. Maybe we’re both stunned, weighing out the moment.
