I think he might be crazy.
I thinkImight be crazy.
Chapter Nineteen
I am. I’m crazy.
Because what sane person would return to the location where she’s vulnerable to a man who drove two hours to sit outside her house without permission?
Me. That’s who. But my God, I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s a constant tug, like a thick rope loops from my chest to Saint’s, and I’m constantly being pulled until I’m too exhausted to fight that pull.
Following attraction and intrigue over instinct and common sense is a very good description of crazy.
The hum of the road beneath my tires is the only consistent sound in the oppressive silence of the car. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, a mirror to the tension coiling in my gut. The sunlight feels harsh today, glinting off the evergreens that line the winding drive. Every mile closer to the cabin feels like a tightening spring, a coil of dread and anticipation.
It’s been a whole day since I told him to leave. He hasn’t reached out since. Not a text, not a call, not even a cryptic emoji since he drove away.
My phone, lying face down on the passenger seat, feels useless to me. I’ve checked it a hundred times, hoping for a flicker of something, anything, just to know he’s not a phantom, that he really did have the audacity to show up at my house and it wasn’t a fever dream. The silence of my phone screams.
My jaw aches from clenching. I told myself I was coming here to finish work, but deep down, I know I’m coming because he’s here and I’m not done with him. Because I’ve been pulled into his orbit and never want to be pushed out.
The turnoff appears, a gravel road whose crunch beneath my tires is starting to feel like the sound of coming home. The familiar trees close in, tall and silent, casting long shadows. My breath hitches.Please, don’t let him be there. Please, let him be there. I realize I’m begging for two very different things right now. I am so confused.
But then, as the trees thin and the small clearing where the cabin sits comes into view, I see it. His car. Dark, imposing, just like yesterday, but this time parked brazenly in my driveway, a territorial flag planted on my property.
He’s here. Of course he’s here.
The anger from last night, temporarily dulled by the frantic morning, flares back to life, hot and immediate. He showed up at myhome. The home I share with Shephard, with our girls. The audacity. The sheer, terrifying audacity. And now he’s just ... waiting for me? As if I owe him something? My hands tighten on the wheel so hard my fingers ache.
I am so happy he’s here. I am so angry he’s here. I’m mad at myself for wanting to run into his arms, while simultaneously feeling the need to blacken his eye.
I steer my car slowly, carefully, pulling up behind his. The engine clicks as I cut the ignition, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic thumping of my heart. I sit here for a long moment, gripping the steering wheel, just breathing, trying to get my racing thoughts undercontrol. I’m not in the mood for sex. I’m too angry for that. But I am in the mood for conversation. Maybe even an argument. A fight. A way to put all this to an end and somehow be okay with it.
I push open the car door, the sound a loud creak in the still air. The wood porch, the scent of pine and damp earth—it all feels alien, tainted, as I make my way toward the front door. My hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating. What will I say? What will he say? Will he demand something? Will he act like nothing happened?
I open the unlocked door to my rental, slowly, carefully, as if expecting a wild animal to spring out. The interior is dim and cool. My eyes scan the living room and kitchen until I find him.
He’s standing at the stove, his back to me, the faint scent of herbs and tomato sauce already wafting through the air. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dark T-shirt, the fabric stretching taut across his shoulders. One hand is sprinkling something on top of a dish; the other rests casually on the counter.
The picture of domesticity, completely at odds with the man who invaded my life, my home, last night.
And good God. He’s wearing socks. Why am I a sucker for a guy in a clean pair of socks?
He turns slightly, just enough for me to see the profile of his face, focused, intent on whatever he’s making. My gaze travels lower, to the dish he’s preparing. It’s a glass dish layered with what looks unmistakably like pasta, rich red sauce, and creamy white.
Lasagna. He made lasagna.
The savory and comforting scent hits me fully. It’s a jarring contrast to the tension in my body, to the raw anger that still simmers.Lasagna.As if this night is normal. As if he’s not the man who just left me after violating my personal space. He’s just ...cookingfor me.
He looks up then, slowly, as if sensing my presence, but without surprise. His dark eyes meet mine across the kitchen. There’s no fear in them, no apology, just a quiet intensity that sends a fresh ripple ofunease through me. He doesn’t say anything. He just closes the bag of Parmesan he’s holding and gestures with his chin toward the table set for two.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says, his voice low, calm.
I walk to the table, my movements stiff, like those of a doll on strings. The table is neatly laid. Two plates, silverware, even linen napkins. A bottle of red wine stands uncorked. He plates the lasagna, thick, generous slices oozing with cheese and rich sauce. He sets one plate in front of me, then takes his own seat opposite me. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, with the chaotic memories of last night. The comforting scent of food feels like a cruel trick.
I pick up my fork, but my appetite is nonexistent. I prod at a piece of pasta, then set the fork down. I can’t eat. Not yet.
He watches me, his expression unreadable. Finally, he sighs, a quiet exhalation. “Look, Petra,” he begins, his voice softer, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I crossed a line.”
