A rare flicker of green flared in his gaze. “Thirty-six, Eleanor.”
“Thirty-six?”
“The number of days since the last time I saw you,” he said, his words gruff, like they hurt to say. “In that hotel room. Thirty-six days. And zero.”
“Zero?”
Somehow, I managed to repeat the number. Somehow, I was still breathing despite the way his gaze seared into me.
“The amount of clothes you were wearing when I walked away.”
My knees grew weak, but despite that, I forced myself to take another step back, to fight the instinct to lean into him.
Sully’s hand shot out, gripping my wrist. He yanked me closer to him, too close. I thought maybe he’d had the same instinct—to eliminate the distance between us—but then a glance over my shoulder told me I’d been about to walk off the edge of the curb.
The reason didn’t really matter, though. All that mattered was that I was close enough to time out his pulse. That every breath I took was filled with cedar and amber, a distinctly Sully scent swirling in the humid August air.
“But sure, let’s say I wanted to pretend it never happened,” he murmured, an ache in his voice. I didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare tip my gaze to meet his, so his words whispered across my hairline. “And that it didn’t matter to me.”
“Sawyer…” I drew in a shaky breath but wasn’t able to compose myself enough to respond before he was reaching around me and opening his car door.
“C’mon, El. Let’s get you home.”
Home.
Did he know? That his mom was offering up his childhood home for me to live in?
Did he know how much I’d always thought of that house as home?
How much I’d always thought ofhimas home?
When we were both in the car, buckled into seats with the engine running, I cleared my throat. “Have you talked to your mom?”
Sully didn’t take his eyes off the road, even though he didn’t pull out onto it. “About how you’ve been staying with her?”
His tone was like it always was lately—hard to read.
“Look, yeah, I’m sorry about that. But I saw her when I was in Boston for Natalie’s trial, and?—”
“I don’t mind that you’re staying with my mom,” he cut in before I could spiral too much. “My mom adores you, and she’s probably very happy that you’re there. And I like when my mom is happy.”
Oh, well, that was…good.
“What I don’t like is being the last person toknowyou’re staying with her.”
Okay, that was…less good.
And valid.
“How long have you even been here?” he asked, a bit accusatory. Like it bothered him that he didn’t know how extensive the overlap of our timelines was—how many days or weeks I’d been existing just down the road from him. And that was a feeling I could understand, appreciate.
Going about my day when I knew he was so close was a different sort of living.
“Only since the beginning of the week.”
That answer didn’t seem to make him feel better, and I sighed. He was right; he didn’t deserve to be the last person to know things. Which meant I couldn’t let this opportunity pass without talking about my living situation. Because if he found out about it later, he’d only be more pissed that I hadn’t brought it up.
“Has your mom talked to you about Maple Street?” I askedbefore bracing myself for the answer. The potential outrage. The sarcastic rebuff.
