Now we’re getting somewhere. “Is that why you changed your identity? You’re hiding from him?”
“I changed my name because I didn’t want to be associated with a criminal.”
“Is that why you didn’t wait for me like you said you would?” The words come out too fast and too raw. I hadn’t meant to ask that. Not like this. Something squeezes my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Her blue eyes dull as if covered by a cloud. She wipes her mouth. “Is that what you meant when you said I lied?”
I run a hand down my face. I’ve said too much. Showed my weakness. But where she’s concerned, she is my weakness. “You catch on fast.”
She stands from the stool, pushing her empty plate away. “You’re unbelievable.” She wobbles on her feet, her hand presses against her ribs as if she’s in pain and I corner the counter, wrapping my arms around her.
“You need to take it easy. Are you sure it’s just low blood pressure or whatever you just said?”
“It’s not just hypoglycaemia.” She narrows her eyes as she glares up at me. “It’s arseholes who betrayed me and think they have the right to be upset that I moved on.” She pushes against me, but I don’t miss how her palms glide over my chest, her fingertips sliding through the hairs there, outlining the inked feathers on my skin.
I wrap her hair around my fist. “I don’t regret what I didto your father. And I’m not sorry for being the first man you ever loved, but I am sorry I left you that night.”
“I could’ve lived with everything, D’Angelo, but I can’t forgive you for using me and breaking my trust.” She pushes against me again and I let her go. “You hurt me more than anyone’s ever hurt me.” She slams the door on her way out of the kitchen and stomps up the stairs.
I rub the pain in my chest, like a dagger slicing up what’s left of my heart. Am I the asshole here? I don’t think so.
I loved her.
I still do.
And that’s the fucking problem.
15
ROSE
Just breathe. Just keep breathing. As I gaze in the bathroom mirror, my fingers grip the edge of the vanity unit. I had to get away from him before he saw the tears pool in my eyes. I refuse to let him see me cry. Damn it, I won’t cry.
My hand hurts where the padded plaster is. The way he took care of me and made me food was the most care a man’s ever shown me in years. In fact, he’s the only man ever to show me that sort of attention. Even more than my brother and father, but the way he looked at me with his dark stare full of hate and disappointment contradicts his actions.
I had to get out of the kitchen, unable to take the heat of his brooding stare and strong arms folded over his broad chest, and all those tattoos and skin and chest hair and oh my goodness, just stop drooling already. I hate him. I cannot forget that.
Why does he have to be so good looking? He could have at least put some weight on like me, but then I’d probably still find his dad bod attractive. I wish he’d gone bald, but knowing him, he’d probably make that look hot, too. I wish Idid actually hate him. It would make this so much easier to bear.
In truth, I only tell myself I hate him, because loving him is too damn painful.
The front door clicks, making me jump. I look out the window as he walks down my drive, shirtless. My neighbour, Mrs. Aranda, is watering her garden. Holy crap, he’s gonna give her a heart attack.
She drops her sunglasses, the hose forgotten as it sprays all over the lawn.
Dan walks towards the picket fence separating our lawns and hands her the roses that he’s collected from the ground. She takes them with her gloved hand and smiles, then he gets in his car and drives away.
Finally able to breathe, I step out of the bathroom and trudge down the stairs. My heart clenches at the sight of the single pink rose on the console table with the thorns stripped off and the picture of my son skewed again.
I open the door and step out into the sun, squinting at Mrs. Aranda.
“Hello, dear. You didn’t say you’d employed a gardener.” She stands and wipes her brow, a small trowel in her hand.
“Gardener?” My brows pull together.
“Mind you, I’ve a good mind to employ him myself.” She chuckles. “He looks like a very nice young man.”
“He’s not young. He’s ten years older than me in his forties.”
