For a while, only Cruz knew those women were a front, that my party-boy persona hid the turbulent disappointment of my youthful dreams. Cruz never told a soul, not even Coach, though I was pretty certain Silas Whittaker had figured me out before he offered my agent the trade deal—that’s probablywhyhe’d been willing to talk to my agent about a trade. The man left little to chance, and he had an amazing team to show for it.
I turned off the water, dried myself, and dressed in record time. I threw some extra clothes into my bag to accommodate the additional days I’d be gone. Then I gathered that and the garment bag that held my suits for the road trip, thankful I always re-packed my bag while I was cleaning out the dirty items.
I met Cruz at the door that led from my kitchen out through a mud room and into the garage. He looked me up and down critically. “You ready for this?”
“No, but I have to face it—face her,” I said. “Try to explain, if she’ll let me.”
He grunted as we threw our bags into the backseat of his truck. “Yeah, that’s the key: if she’ll let you. But it’s worth the shot, and I can’t stand your moping anymore.”
We spent the next few hours of travel—to the airport, on the flight, after we had the rental car—trying to come up with a plan that would allow me to get Hana to believe my crazy story. I still couldn’t believe it was the truth.
“Doubt any of this is going to work,” Cruz muttered as he pulled our car to a stop at the campus where Hana worked. He looked me up and down. “Good luck. I hope she’s more forgiving than most people.”
I scowled. “That’s a terrible pep talk. This was your idea!”
“Not here to talk you up, brother.” He cast me a side-eye. “I’m here for when it doesn’t work.”
Well, fuck.
Chapter2
Hana
Istared out the window, wishing I hadn’t agreed to run this round of data. It was the time I’d normally be gathering my things to go, and I was tired.
I’d been tired for so long, I wasn’t sure I remembered what energetic or happy felt like. At first, I’d chalked my exhaustion up to healing, and that was at least partly true. But the fatigue should have passed by now. It hadn’t, and I was starting to think it never would.
I thought everything had fallen apart when Paxton broke up with me, but the real slump had hit when I’d miscarried our child later that week. It had been raining then, and I’d hated the rain ever since.
I hadn’t known I was pregnant, so the nurse had told me I couldn’t really miss the baby.
I’d abhorred that nurse with every fiber of my being from that moment until I left the hospital. She knew it, too, and had tried to avoid my room. When she’d come in to check my vitals, she’d kept her eyes averted.
For a while, my rage toward her kept me going. But eventually, even hate gives out. Then I was left with grief and loneliness, along with a painful road to recovery.
“I preferred the hate,” I muttered to myself. But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I just preferred not feeling empty and sad.
I sighed, tracing the raindrop’s slide down the window before pulling my attention back to the computer. I didn’t want to think about Paxton. I never did, but he still crept up on me—an insidious need I couldn’t shake. I intended to hate him for that, too. The data was mostly analyzed now. Only another hour, maybe two. Then I could crawl into bed…and toss and turn restlessly.
I sighed. I needed to move past this funk, but I didn’t know how.
Jeremy’s hands settled on my neck and began to massage the knots there. “You’re awfully tense,” he whispered in my ear.
“I know.” I didn’t enjoy his caresses nor the ear-whispering, which tickled my sensitive skin.
“Is it because of the simulation we’re going to run tomorrow?” he asked. “You know it’s stellar work. You always blow me away, Han. I can’t believe such a beautiful package houses such a brilliant mind.” He kissed my cheek.
I bit back a grimace. I hadn’t invited his touch. I just hadn’t rejected it either. And I should have, because I didn’t like him touching me. I didn’t like much in the way of physical contact these days, not after the months of being poked and prodded by medical professionals.
“Please. Not now, Jeremy.”
“How about later?”
“I’m not feeling great.”
“Is this because of your leg?”
I nodded. But my leg, which often hurt, wasn’t the issue right now. My lack of interest in touch was much more relevant, but I was too worn out to bring it up, especially with Jeremy. He had a habit of steamrolling my concerns, and I couldn’t allow that—not now that he’d made it clear he wanted intimacy.
