And I was left standing in the silence, heart pounding, palm still tingling from his touch, with one thought burning through my mind.
I was falling for Knox Blackwood.
And I had absolutely no idea how to stop.
19
KNOX
Who knew holding hands could feel so fucking intimate?
I lay on my cot, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles I’d memorized. Same cracks. Same mold spots in the corner. Same flickering fluorescent light that buzzed like a dying insect.
Everything the same.
Except me. Apparently.
“Jesus Christ.” Ronan’s voice cut through the silence. “The fuck happened to you?”
“What?”
“You look like you’re high on something.” He leaned against the wall, squinting at me like I’d grown a second head. “You didn’t score something from?—”
“I don’t do drugs. You know that.”
“Then what the fuck is with this?” He gestured vaguely at my entire existence.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” A pause. Then, horrified: “Is that … is that a fucking smile on your face?”
I schooled my expression. “Everyone smiles.”
“Not you.” He shook his head slowly. “Never you. I’ve seen you laugh maybe twice, and both times, somebody was bleeding.”
“Turning over a new leaf.”
“Your parole.” He snapped his fingers, sitting up straighter. “You got good news?”
“No.”
The word landed like a stone in my chest. When was the last time that boulder of disappointment had hit this hard? I’d basically given up hope with parole. Stopped letting myself want it. Stopped picturing what freedom might taste like.
But now …
Harper existed outside these walls. Harper, with her green eyes and her careful hands and the way she’d looked at me like I wasn’t just a number in orange.
“Seriously, you’re creeping me the fuck out.” My cellmate’s voice pulled me back. “What gives?”
“Just having a good day.”
“Bull. Shit.”
He knew it. I knew it. But what the hell was I supposed to say? That I was lying here, grinning at the ceiling like some lovesick teenager because I’d gotten to hold Harper’s hand?
That would earn me a one-way ticket to the psych ward.
And yet …
