She hesitates and slows enough that I can catch up. I don’t touch her, but part of me wants to grab her elbow so she doesn’t take off and leave me in a trail of dust.
“What?” She plants her hands on her hips. She’s gnawing at her bottom lip. And we might be standing in the low light of the string lights hung around Carrick, but I can tell she’s been crying.
Bollocks. I did that to her. I made her cry. My stomach dips like I’m on a rollercoaster but then turns to stone.
Itbetterhave been me that made her cry. If it wasn’t me, then whoever made my beautiful girl sad is going to get a talking to. Maybe even a fist to the face. Bastard.
From the way she glances at her feet, I already know that it’s me. I’m the bastard who needs a fist to the face.
“Not to sound like a cliché, but it isn’t what you think.”
She pops out her hip, her face hardening in the dim light. “You mean you weren’t just with me to get your next fucking headline?” She snorts. “Congrats, Robert. You got your exclusive.”
Like an arrow to the heart, her words deflate my chest. I thought we’d grown, built a foundation of trust, but all it took was to hear one out-of-context conversation for her to believe the worst of me again.
That hurts. Another reminder that it’s not just Mum I’m rebuilding trust with, and it’s fucking exhausting.
“No, Rhiannon.” I jam my hands in my pockets, so I don’t reach out and touch her. “That’s not it at all. And I’m a little hurt you’d jump to that conclusion and not ask me outright before running.” I jerk my hands back out of my dress pants then bend over, bracing my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath and stop the throbbing in my leg.
When I stand back up, she’s looking straight at me instead of at her feet, or my chest. “Then what?”
The rain gets heavier, but she stands firm, like a wild goddess in the night, unafraid of the elements, unafraid of any fucking thing. She’s a sight to behold.
“My boss wanted me to write about you. Something good, juicy, salacious. I said yes. Because I was desperate. Because I needed the paycheck, to keep my job. Because I’m a coward when it comes to saying no to men like him. But then I got to know the real you, and the whole bloody thing changed.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “When I tried to refuse, he said he’d give it to Pete.” I can’t keep the contempt for that prick “journalist” out of my tone. “And Pete doesn’t really care about the facts, you know? Or about the subjects of his articles. He’s in it for the clicks, for the scandal, for the paycheck. So, I told them I’d do it so that he wouldn’t.”
She recoils but stays silent.
“I figured if I could control the story, I could protect you from that prick and whatever bullshit he comes up with.” I rub the back of my neck, hoping with my whole being that she believes me because, like a lightning bolt in a storm, it hits me that I’m developing feelings for this woman.
In truth, I have since that first day nearly a month ago in the bar. Like a plant getting sunlight and water, the seeds planted are sprouting little roots and growing into somethingbeautiful. I can feel it. And I want to see where this could go. For real.
“I started writing.”
Water trickles down her face as she folds her arms across her body, raising her shields like a wall. It’s like a door slamming shut. Not loud. Just final.
“Nothing bad. But I started a story. Couldn’t stop, actually. It wasn’t meant to be an article anymore—it was just me, trying to make sense of you. Trying to make sense of what you do to me. I just couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t write something the way they needed it to be written. So, I started another story, the Rhiannon Morrigan story I wanted to write, that the world deserves to hear. About the woman, the athlete, the myth.”
Her face softens, and I risk decapitation by sweeping my fingers against her cold face. Shit, she’s freezing.
I slip my dinner jacket off and drape it over her shoulders. It’s not much, we’re both pretty wet by now, but it’s something.
“I haven’t finished it or submitted it, and I swear I was going to let you read it before I sent it in.”
She rolls her lips. “You didn’t betray me?”
I can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes me as I rub at the stitch forming in my muscles. “Not only did I not betray you. I ran for you. I don’t run, Rhiannon. Not for anyone. Not if the building was on fire, not if Godzilla was chasing me, not if I missed the ice cream van. I ran foryou. The man who takes the lift up one floor. But I ran for you because you’re the one thing worth limping after.”
CHAPTER 37
Rhiannon
You’re worth running for.
My brain flatlines. Heart stutters. Every rational thought I’ve ever had packs up and fucks off.
I stand staring at him in the rain. He looks like a sad puppy—if sad puppies had jawlines that could cut glass and shirts going translucent enough to make a nun blush. Beads of water drip from his chin, his hair, his nose.
