Page 7 of Never Too Late

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he growled, barely moving his lips, his jaw was so tense.

I was too shocked to answer him. Too shocked to even move.

Because there he was.

It was almost as if time stopped. Everything was in slow motion.

Tall.

Dirty blonde hair, cropped short at the sides, longer on top, sticking in all directions like he just got out of bed, except that one strand that kept falling in his eye.

God, I loved it when it did. It gave me an excuse to touch his face, to touch him whenever it did, so that I could move it.

Strong, almost square jaw, that I was surprised it didn’t shatter with how hard he was grinding his teeth. There was a new addition to him. A short beard. The kind that scratches just right. And yes, even at a glance, I absolutely knew that. Just as I knew that his brown eyes had a dark blue circle on the outer edges of his irises. The same eyes that were rimmed with thick, short eyelashes.

He was even more handsome than I remembered.

And I remembered everything about him.

I also remembered the fact he moved gracefully, almost fluidly, no matter his height and muscled figure. A fact that was proved right when he stepped into my office and raised his arm my way. And the faded jeans that stretched over his thighs as he took his steps told me he was even more muscular now.

I just hoped he didn’t become one of those overly muscled men, as more and more seemed to jump out from every corner.

Yes, oh yes.

I remembered.

I watched as his mouth opened and I remembered his fuller bottom lip and how good it felt to nibble on it.

How sweet they tasted.

Or how harsh they could be spitting out the words that were meant to hurt or shatter me, just like he was doing now.

“You should have left by now.” The voice I could still hear in my dreams, whispering sweet nothings in my ear was nowhere near now. “Why are you still here?”

It was a question I thought I knew the answer to.

But looking at Dylan, having all my memories of him, of us, rushing in, I was questioning it.

Were they just lies I told myself just so I could sleep easier?

Have I turned my life upside down because I was hurting and needed to feel safe?

Feel that I had something of my own?

Somewhere to belong?

With shaking hands, I tried to hold myself up. I clutched the desk that was in front of me, my knuckles turning white, I didn’t want him to see how much he rattled me.

I opened my mouth to say something.

What?

I had no idea, but it didn’t matter anyway, he got there before me. His whole body sagged, his brown eyes filled with sorrow, his face got that tender look he once wore whenever he looked at me. And in a voice that seemed like it was dragged from inside his chest, he almost rasped, “I gave you enough time, Sophie. I thought you would do what you’re so good at. But it doesn’t matter, it’s time for you to leave.”

He didn’t give me a chance to answer him. The moment I opened my mouth, he lost all the softness of his appearance and he jabbed a finger my way, his face once again enraged and he muttered angrily, “You better get out of this town. I can’t stand the look of you.”

He then, in a complete one-eighty, turned to Mrs. McConnell and said in a soft tone, “I’ll take you home when you’re ready. Just come on out, I’ll be in my truck.”