Page 123 of Lucky Shot

“Well, you need stuff that’s you here.” I’ve gotten good at covering up emotion during my life. I do that right now. I pull my hand from his and fidget with my hair. “It’s a long time to be isolated.”

“That’s how I live. Too much to move back and forth.” He moves his face so his stubble tickles against the bare skin of my shoulder.

I falter. How can I tease myself with a glimpse of this feeling, this sensation, when I know it’s going to end? “You’re silently freaking out, aren’t you?”

“I just . . . like I said, you need stuff here that’s you. That makes you happy.”

“I do have that. You’re here,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

Then we sit in silence and allow this new reality I’m beginning to think neither of us wanted or expected to sink in as a possible reality.

But there’s comfort in the silence I’ve never known before, a peace that comes with it.

And as I settle into the thought of it, a soft snore falls from his lips.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Whitney

Unlocked.

There’s something about what just happened that I can’t put my finger on, but that’s how I feel, unlocked.

Like I’ve lived so much of my life guarded with a wall up and a padlock securing it that I’ve never opened myself up to the chance at anything.

Life is much easier that way. No one can leave then. No one can let you down. No one can disappoint you. No one can hurt you.

But I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who understands me like this. Two different worlds. Two different circumstances. One collective understanding of loneliness and abandonment.

Goodwill.

I’ve never told anyone that story before. Never had the inkling to. Until tonight. Until him . . . and that’s telling me way more than any words or actions could.

I trust him when I shouldn’t. And not just because he stepped up to help me with the academy while I was sick, but because of the whole picture he’s letting me see of him—snapshot by snapshot.

I rest my cheek on the side of his head and wonder how this happened. The emotions rioting through me. The unexpectedness of the man when you dig deep enough. The want to share with him and the desire to sit right here the rest of the night.

“You need stuff here that’s you. That makes you happy.”

“I do have that. You’re here.”

No one comment has ever validated me as much at that one.

Unlocked is the correct sentiment, all right.

I just don’t know what to do about it.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Hardy

I sit in my car in the garage. The engine is off. The cab light has long since timed out.

Last night I went out to the bar with the guys. Did I want to go? No. Not at all. But I forced myself to go, to take a break from Whitney, but more to remain in control of . . . of what, Hardy? What are you trying to control?

How Whitney calls you Alexander Hardy and when she does, you don’t flinch at the sound of it? How Whitney saying your first name doesn’t cause that immediate and negative gut-check reaction like it always has?

Or is it how she’s all you think about? When you wake up. When you’re at her academy doing all the shit you’re doing to help her out. When you’re at your own practice. When she falls asleep on the couch and you study her, wondering how you can prolong this when you know for a fucking fact it has an expiration date on it you know you can’t extend.