Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I allow a small smile to erupt. “Deal.”
As we walk to Shirley’s old beat-up car behind Caesar’s, I replay the moments in my head. The original attack, and then my interaction with Lance just now.
And I realize.
Henry is a man with many flaws. Some tiny, some substantial. He pushed me away when we were at Angie’s wedding, made me feel like shit several times, and had me questioning whether I wanted to abandon my life’s ambition to live with him on the Western Slope.
But I know for a fact that he would never pull a stunt like this.
One week later…
I didn’t tell Henry about my run-in with Lance. I didn’t want to worry him. He’s still recovering from his injury, and I didn’t want him careening down the mountain in his condition.
I’ve been staying with Angie and Jason. I didn’t want to go back to my place after the incident at Caesar’s. Lance knows where I live, since he drove me home that night. I didn’t want him showing up on my doorstep in the wee hours of the morning with some bullshit excuse.
I called Angie that night, begging her not to tell her brother about what happened, and she gave me the code to her and Jason’s front door. After Shirley drove me home, I packed a few things into a suitcase and took an Uber over. Once I know Lance isn’t going to show up, I’ll move back into my place, maybe invest in a good security system.
Even though the night at the bar was harrowing, I’m not experiencing nightmares like I did after the first attack.
I don’t know if it’s because I feel so safe with Angie and Jason or if it’s because I’m feeling emboldened after my weekend with Henry.
Speaking of which… I haven’t heard from him since the night I got back.
It’s probably my own damned fault.
I told him not to call back last Sunday evening. That it was too late. That I had an early class.
All of that was true, but I also told him to call me “tomorrow.”
He didn’t.
A day went by. Then another.
Another.
Another.
Another.
I know he would have called if Angie told him what had happened at the bar, so I know she kept her word on that front.
And here I am. It’s Saturday. No class today.
I could call Eli, see if he wants to do something. But he’ll just want to practice more knots, more instrument handling. I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime at this point.
I have an appointment with a therapist next week. Angie told me to ask Dr. Carlos Engel, who’s on the medical school faculty, for a referral. He said he’d be happy to see me himself, free of charge, since Angie referred me.
Being friends with a Steel does have its perks.
The world looks different when you stop holding your breath.
Boulder is hot again, the kind of dry heat that makes the sky look bigger. I’m ready to leave Angie and Jason’s to walk to Starbucks and read through my notes when my phone buzzes.
I jolt.
It’s from Henry.
The message is simple.
Outside.
My pulse trips.
No, he can’t be. Not here. How does he even know I’m at Angie and Jason’s?
I race out into the sunlight.
And there he is.
Leaning against his truck parked in front of the townhome, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sunglasses hooked on his shirt. Zach sits obediently at his side, tail thumping against the pavement.
For a moment, I just stand there. There’s something surreal about seeing him here, this man who belongs to the wide quiet of the Western Slope, standing in front of a Boulder townhome like he’s part of the ordinary world.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Hey yourself.” His mouth curves.
“Why didn’t you call me Monday?” I start. “I was—”
He silences me by yanking me to him and crushing his lips to mine.
The kiss is the kind that erases time.
It’s desperate. It’s a week of silence, of wanting, colliding in a single breath.
His hands are on my face, as he kisses me like he’s angry at himself, like he’s trying to make up for every day he didn’t call, every word he never said.
I twist my fingers in the fabric of his shirt. The world narrows. No cars, no people, just his mouth and the heat that blazes between us.
He pulls back only enough to breathe. He rests his forehead against mine, his breath warm and uneven.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says, voice ragged. “Didn’t matter what I tried. You were everywhere.”
I swallow hard. “You didn’t call me.”
“I know.” He drags his thumb along my cheek. “And I hated myself for it. But I have a good reason.”
I want to stay angry. I really do. But his scent—wood, clean soap, something purely him—undoes me. I tip my head up, and when his mouth finds mine again, I don’t resist.