My body remembers.
My body is a dumbass.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is sharper now. Better.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He takes another step. Close enough that I catch his scent—cedar, spice, something clean and male underneath. A memory slams into me: his truck, summer nights, his hands on my hips.
Anger flares, hot and saving.
“I asked you a question,” I snap. “Don’t avoid it.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.
“I came for you.”
The words hit hard. My mind scrambles for logic.
He didn’t come for me when I cried myself to sleep. He didn’t come for me when I begged the universe for an explanation. He didn’t come for me for ten years. And now he’s standing here in front of cameras like he’s allowed to make a claim.
My anger surges.
“You knew?” I hiss, and I hate that my voice shakes. “You knew this was what the show really was, and you still came?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.”
Betrayal slices clean through me, sharper than the abandonment ever was because it’s present. Tangible. In my face.
“You don’t ambush someone on cable television just to have a conversation,” I bite out.
“I’m not asking to start over without explaining,” he says, controlled. “You deserve to know what happened.”
“Why does that matter now?”
His throat works. For the first time, something flickers in his expression—pain, maybe. Or frustration.
“Please,” he says, and the word is quiet enough it feels private. “Give me time to explain.”
Time.
The very thing he stole.
I shake my head. “You ran out of time the moment you left.”
His gaze holds mine like he’s trying to reach through me. “There are things you don’t know.”
“Stop,” I snap. “Don’t pretend you get to decide what I deserve. You don’t know me anymore.”
Before he can respond, Miranda clears her throat, slicing through the moment like a blade.
I tear my gaze from Scott and turn on her.
She’s smiling. Like this is delightful.
“What a perfect way to end our arrivals!” she trills. “And just think—this is only the beginning.”
I want to throttle her.
