We lie in silence, panting, our slick bodies pressed together. It’s only been minutes, but neither of us has spoken, likely not knowing what the hell to say. Beyond the windows, it’s started to snow. It’s a pretty distraction from how sore and satisfied I am.
I had sex.
Wild, incredible sex.
With my dead boyfriend’s brother.
Before I can even voice my guilt, Gable helps me dress. In silence, he pulls on my clothes, then his.
“I’d better take Motor out before we go to bed.” He falters. “We … as in, me and the dog. Not me and you. I— fuck.”
He gets out, slamming the door closed behind him.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and groan.
This is a nightmare. As if the threat of being hunted isn’t messy enough, I’ve thrown a few more complications into the mix.
Good job, Ella.
“Good fucking job, indeed,” I grumble, getting out of the car.
As I close and lock the door to the cabin behind me, Gable has opened the back patio door. Motor runs out, but Gable waits in the doorway, arms folded, leaning against the frame. I stare at his back, at his broad shoulders and powerful presence, and wonder how things can change so drastically in such a short amount of time.
Usually, I’d say something sassy or sarcastic if he ignored me. Or I wouldn’t say a word before putting my headphones on and working, content with seeing him in the morning.
Now, I’m pulling apart everything. Is he not facing me because he can’t? Is he not leaving the house because he wants me to come with him on the walk with Motor?
Does he hate himself?
Does he hate me?
“I’m gonna go to bed,” I say, my chest tightening as he faces me.
He stares, and the look keeps me fixed to the spot.
“That can’t happen again.”
I knew that was coming. Truthfully, I’m surprised I didn’t say it first, but it still stings.
“Whatever, Gable,” I whisper, heading for the stairs.
I hear his approaching footsteps. “You can’t be pissed at me.”
Stopping mid-stair, I turn and look down at him. “Really? And why is that?”
“Because … because this isn’t right. It’s fucking disrespectful,” he says, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles are white. “He was my brother.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you can’t be angry. This is the right thing.”
“Who are you trying to convince?” I snap back. “Does it make you feel less shitty to be the one to call it off? Will it help you sleep tonight?”
The wounded look that crosses his face is there and gone in an instant, but my regret over those words will stay with me forever.
“That’s so fucking unfair, Gibson.”
My laugh is bitter. “Oh, I’m Gibson again? I was Ella when you were fucking me.”
