There’s also Nash. Am I greedy for feeling like my heart is missing a piece? It’s like each of my three guys speaks to one important part of my heart in a way no one else can.
Tucker is warmth, sunshine, and laughter in a sweet, sexy, caring package.
Colsen is steady and thoughtful, giving protection. He makes me feel safe, and the chemistry between us is off the charts.
Then there is Nash. I’ve always been drawn to his quiet, brooding character that’s paired with a level of hotness that should be illegal. He’s wild and intense, but has a softer side that he hides from the world. He’s let me catch a glimpse of it, and I’m addicted. Obsessed.
But can I trust Nash? Is he behind these threatening texts?
At least I know that I can trust Tucker and Colsen.
Can you really? But most importantly, can they trust you?
An intrusive thought finds its way into my mind as I flip my grilled cheese sandwich in the skillet.
How would I feel if the guys were hiding something from me, like I am from them?
If our relationship has one chance in hell to last, jealousy isn’t our biggest problem. Honesty is.
The thought takes my breath away, and I almost forget about my dinner. I only remember about the grilled cheese when I begin to smell something burning.
“Fuck,” I hiss, lifting the sandwich with a spatula and dumping it on a plate. One side is slightly burned, but I think it’s salvageable; if I scrape the parts that are charred with a knife, I should be able to eat it.
Before cooking my dinner, I went to the communal laundry room in the basement level of the building and started a couple of loads of laundry.
Like I thought, everyone is partying or resting after the game, and the laundry room was deserted.
I used nearly half of the washers available, a luxury I usually don’t have because between hockey players andcheerleaders those machines are always at work. I even got the clothes in Jodie’s hamper as promised.
I settle on the couch with my sandwich and put on a true crime documentary that I can follow without giving it my full attention.
A timer is set on my phone for when the clothes need to be switched from the washer machines to the dryers.
All I have to do until then is eat my dinner and decompress.
But it’s easier said than done. Once the thought that I’m not being honest with the men I’m falling for has taken root in my mind, I can’t relax.
What would Tucker and Colsen think of me if they knew what brought me and Jodie to Star Cove?
Would they look at me the same way they are now or would they walk away like Nash has done?
If it’s true that I’m falling for them, I should be totally honest and not hide a secret so big that could blow our lives apart if it ever came out. If that seemed unlikely before, now someone knows and they seem hellbent on not letting me forget what I’ve done to Tim.
Or at least whatI think I might have done to Tim. A shudder works its way down my spine, and I drop my half-eaten sandwich onto my plate. The memory of all that blood and of the feeling of his severed head making contact with my foot makes the food I’ve just eaten threaten to come back up again.
At this point, the documentary is running in the background, and I couldn’t tell you much about the serial killer in the show who kills young women he finds on Craigslist.
For a few terrifying moments, I’m back in Hemlock Beach. I’m in Tim’s room, in his bed.
A strangled sob comes out of me, and I press both myhands over my mouth. I know that Tim and I were alone in that room and that the murder weapon was on the floor right by my side.
I wish I could remember something, anything that would help me prove to myself that I didn’t commit that horrific crime. I’m a nurse. All I’ve ever wanted in my life is to help others; whether it is by healing them or by bringing them happiness through my art, my dancing.
I’ve never even contemplated violence. Ok, maybe that isn’t exactly true. When Gen kicked me during training, it took all my willpower not to head butt her and give her a bloody nose matching the one she had given me.
I wish I could remember something, anything, about that night. Or do I? If the reason I forgot, and that I did something so unlike me, is that I was drugged, that also means that Tim took advantage of me while I was unconscious. Not remembering that part is the only blessing about my memory loss.
But I’d rather face the inevitable trauma if that meant knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not a murderer.
