But he catches up easily—damn long legs—and steps in front of me, blocking my path with a look so sincere it makes my throat tighten.
“I’m so sorry I missed your father’s funeral,” he says urgently.“If I’d known?—”
“What?”I snap, the word leaving my mouth like a whip.“If you’d known what, Nathan?You’d have flown in for a photo op?Written a song about grief?Posted a tribute between world tours?”
His jaw clenches, pain flickering across his face.But I’m not done—not remotely.
“Bonnie’s gone too,” I say, the words landing harder than I expect.“She died of ovarian cancer.Left her daughter without a mother.That was just before Dad.In fact, I think it broke his heart.”
Nathan’s breath catches.
“Shit,” he murmurs, voice thick.“Ad, I—what can I say?I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” I say bitterly.“But you had your life to live, and we all had ours.Don’t worry about it, Nathan.I’m fine.I’ve been fine a long time without you.”
His eyes flare—hurt, regret, something raw and pleading.
“Adrianna, I never meant for so much time to pass before coming home?—”
“Is this your home?”I throw back, stepping around him, but he moves with me.“Really?Or is it just a stop before you hop on some world tour or sign another record deal?”
“That’s not?—”
“Whatever.”My laugh is sharp, humorless.“It’s not my business.Never was.”
He reaches for my arm but stops himself at the last second, fingers curling into a fist instead.
“Ad—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly, shaking my head.“You just, just go.Have a nice life, Nathan.”
I unlock my car, yank the door open, and slide inside before my resolve cracks.
Because if I stay one second longer—if I look into those blue eyes again or let myself remember what love used to feel like—I might not walk away at all.
But I’ll be damned if I let Nathan Thorn break me again.
ChapterEight
Nathan
“So, how goes the journey home?”Trish asks, her face filling my phone screen during our video call.
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair.
The garage is freezing—even with the space heater blasting like it’s fighting for its life—but I’ve been out here for two days straight, working on the furniture.
Grandma’s dresser.Her rocking chair.Her nightstand.
I’ve stripped them down to bare wood, the scent of sawdust settling into my clothes, my skin, my lungs.
“What fucking journey, Trish?I’m here, aren’t I?”
It comes out harsher than I intend.
“Ouch,” she says, arching a brow.“Grumpy much?What’s going on, Nate?Things not going as easy as you thought they would?”
She’s not wrong.
