Page 42 of The Image of You

She stroked the material. “No, this one is soft. I like it.”

I liked the way it hung around her shoulders with the ragged, wide neck, and the way it showed off her milky thighs. My body hardened at the simple beauty that shone from her. I wanted her.

I patted the bed next to me, lifting the covers so she could be warm as we talked. I wrapped my hand around hers. “Tell me.”

It was a minute before she spoke. Her eyes were trained on our hands, her fingers tracing over my bruised knuckles which happened when I slipped on some wet rocks. She bent down, brushing her lips to the discolored flesh.

“I can’t do it anymore. The constant demands and the disappointment I see on their faces. Nothing I do is right or good enough, and I’m tired of trying.” She sighed in resignation. “I knew my dress wasn’t what my mother would want me to wear, but I thought it was so pretty.”

“You were beautiful.”

She tilted back her head, meeting my eyes. I saw the sadness swimming in the blue depths, her irises cast in gray. “You’re the only person who said that.”

I lifted our hands and kissed the thin skin inside her wrist. “You should always wear what you want. Act the way you want to. Do what makes you happy.”

“When I’m on my own, I do. My mother hates the way I dress, but I like to be comfortable. I find it hard to conform to their vision of what is right all the time. I wore it because I loved it. The last dress I wore, Bradley told me I looked like an old woman and my mother said it was dreadful. So this time, I wore what I liked. But once again, it was wrong.”

“No. They’re wrong.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re perfect—just the way you are.”

She shook her head, frustration in her voice when she spoke. “I’m not perfect, Adam. I don’t want to be put on a pedestal by you. I’ve had to be perfect for so long. I’m just me.”

I held her hand to my face. “I know you’re not a perfect person. But all your little imperfections, all the things you think you have to change, make you perfect for me.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“What did great-guy Bradley think about being fake dumped?” I queried, interested in his reaction.

No matter what the bastard told her, he wasn’t faking anything. He wanted her—and he wanted to control her the same way her parents did. He just covered it better.

“He wanted to talk, so that’s why I went to his place. I felt I owed him that at least.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. I told him I realized it didn’t matter what I did, it was never going to be enough. I was tired of living for everyone else and trying to make up for something I could never make up for—no matter how long or hard I tried. And using him only made me feel worse. We were both lying.” She took in a deep breath. “He asked me if there was someone else.”

“And?” I tensed as I waited for her reply.

“I told him yes. I’d met someone, and I wanted to explore it.”

“He didn’t like that, did he?”

Her gaze flittered around, and she didn’t answer.

I cupped her cheek, turning her face to mine.

“Did he do anything?” I paused. “Tell me the truth.”

“No, he didn’t touch me.”

“He said something?”

“He didn’t like it and said he didn’t understand why I didn’t see you secretly until I made sure it was going to work out, and then we could discuss ending things. He seemed to think whoever I was interested in wouldn’t stay interested in me very long.”

“Well, the bastard is wrong. Did you tell him about me?”