Page 54 of Mad Girl

“I want you to say it, Elliot.” A challenge glimmered in your gaze as it held mine. Or maybe it was more like a dare. Whatever the hell it was, that—coupled with the rough timbre of your voice—made my stomach flutter.

I swear, Casey. It’s like you always knew how to ask for the very thing it pained me to give you. To ask for the word want, specifically, was like asking me to rip out my own tooth. I had to mentally prepare myself, and even then, my chest burned as I said it. Not because I didn’t want you there. Because I wanted it too much. “I actually”—I closed my eyes, forcing air through my nose—“kind of want you there.”

“Kind of?” you asked, eyebrows lifting. “Fine. Suppose I’m better off going back home.”

“Wait,” I said as you turned back to the stove, and you paused, grasping the burnished brass handle of your kettle. “I want you there, okay? Please”—I took a deep breath—“please come.”

“Okay,” you said with a smile, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll come. But only because you want that.”

I held back the retort inching across my tongue and reached for my water bottle, needing the distraction. “I’m sorry I eavesdropped.” I rolled my eyes. “Again.”

You studied my face for a moment, then said, “I meant what I said before. I don’t feel stuck here with you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I really don’t,” you said with a small smile, hands jammed in your pockets. “It feels a bit like I’ve acquired a small, yappy dog—you know? At first, there was loads of growling, and she threatened to bite me a time or two. But now that she’s sniffed about and realizes I don’t mean her any harm, she snuggles real close when we watch TV, lets me teach her new things, and gets particularly excited when I offer her treats. I think I’ve finally won her over, and I feel pretty good about that.”

It was my please. It had made you cocky. I blinked, fighting the urge to take it all back. “Did you just compare me to a dog?”

“Oh, is that not alright?” you asked, a hand pressed to your chest. “It’s just that you recently likened me to a golden retriever or something. So I thought it might be okay to return the sentiment.”

I gaped. I crossed my arms. I might have even snorted.

“Listen,” you said with a grin so gorgeous my pulse skipped, your eyes twinkling again, back to that dazzling ocean blue, “all I’m trying to say is, I enjoy being here. In some strange, unexpected way…it feels like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.” Your gaze gently swept over me. “I’m glad I came back to you.”

My heart beat faster at the reminder of that text I’d sent on your birthday. I guess it kind of cheered me to know that it had also meant something to you.

Still, I said, “Well, I was, too. Until you basically compared me to a chihuahua.”

Still grinning, you ushered me into a stool. “Here, sit down. I’ll give you extra biscuits with your tea.”

I huffed—but laughed—as I swatted your arm. “That doesn’t help your case right now.”

You laughed, too, and the sound was glorious.

Maybe, I thought, being stuck in this house isn’t so terrible, after all.

LETTER TEN

87 WEEKS LEFT

You were different today.

Your gaze flicked over me as I took my seat at the steel table, then quickly fell to your hands, your wrists now bare of your watch and bracelets since the guards force you to remove them. Stupid rules.

I kept dipping my head—kept trying to feel the warm comfort of your gaze—but you wouldn’t give it to me. You wouldn’t touch me with your eyes at all.

Panic fluttered through my chest. “What happened?” I demanded. “What’s wrong?”

You finally lifted your gaze to mine, but it wasn’t the warm touch I craved, your eyes too shuttered to offer me anything but a creeping sense of dread.

“Did something bad happen?” I asked, voice breaking on the words. “You would tell me if something awful happened, right? You wouldn’t let me read about it in the paper?”

“Of course not,” you said quietly. “Nothing’s wrong, Elliot. Everything’s fine.”

I noticed you failed to say nothing bad had happened, but your gaze swept tenderly over me, covering me like a blanket. So I relaxed, deciding to drop it.

I asked if you’d been to the beach and you glanced off to the side, muttering that you had.