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Is this his idea of some twisted joke? I mean, there’s no way in hell that Jared Kraft is standing in my doorway with a dozen yellow roses after five years without a single word.
Shit like that only happens in movies, and my life for damn sure isn’t some glamorous fairy tale.
I stand there, staring like an idiot, while my brain tries to work out exactly what’s going on here. I furrow my brow. This has to be a fucking dream. No way this man has the nerve to just show up here like this—not after all this time.
I step back and take a long moment to study his face. He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, only his hair is longer—more shaggy and unkempt—the style I’ve seen him wear whenever I see pictures of him with his band, Wicked White. To prove to myself that this really is a dream, I reach down and bunch some skin up on my arm and then pinch with all my might.
“Ouch!” I yelp as I inspect the flesh my nails dug into.
My breath catches the moment I realize that the man who used to be my everything—the man who took off five years ago, leaving me and his family behind without so much as a good-bye or piss off—is standing on my porch.
When my eyes meet his, so many questions rage through my mind, but before I can open my mouth to ask a single one, anger begins to boil over inside me. How dare he just come waltzing into my life after all this time?
My body reacts of its own accord and my hand darts out to snatch the flowers out of his hand. His eyes grow wider when I slam them down onto my porch and then smack his face as hard as I can.
My hand instantly stings, but one hit just wasn’t enough to make him feel all the pain I felt these past years.
I draw back to hit him again, but he grabs my wrist, yanking my body flush against his, which only further pisses me off. “Let go of me!”
“No,” he growls. “Not until you calm the fuck down.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” I fire back. “You deserve more than me smacking you in the face for leaving the way you did.”
Jared’s body stiffens. I’ve struck a nerve? Good. I hope so.
“I know I do.” He sighs. “If I let you go, do you promise that you’ll calm the fuck down so we can attempt to talk like two civilized people?”
I roll my eyes as I struggle to get out of his grasp. “A little late for talking now, don’t you think?”
There’s no way he can miss my pissy tone. I want him to know that I’m still angry with him after all this time. If he came here to apologize, I’m not going to make it easy on him.
“I fucked up, all right. I know that. It wasn’t my intention to just come waltzing back into your life unannounced. If you give me a chance to explain myself, maybe we can actually hold a conversation without fighting.” The muscles in his jaw tick beneath his skin as he blows a rush of air out through his nose. “Are you going to calm down or what?”
“I’m perfectly calm.” I jerk my hands so hard that I fly backward out of his grip and slam into the corner of the door frame, nearly knocking myself out.
Jared wraps his arms around my waist and then attempts to steady me. “Easy there. Are you okay?”
“I’m fi—Ouch!” Pain rushes through my head, and I realize I may have hit it a little harder than I initially thought.
He furrows his brow, and there’s a sadness in his blue eyes that I’ve never seen before. “I think you better sit down. Can I come in?”
I reach up and gingerly rub the spot on the back of my head that cracked against the doorjamb. I sigh and then wave him on in. “Follow me.”
The clock ticking away on my living room wall is the only sound in my otherwise-silent house. Every muscle stiffens as I sit on my couch and Jared takes the seat across from me.
I study his faded blue jeans and black T-shirt, and I’m quickly reminded that anything he wears looks like a million bucks on him. He looks the same, just a little older, and there are hints of tattoos poking out from beneath his shirtsleeves.
Why are asshole men always so beautiful?
Jared tilts his head, and his blue eyes bore into me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
That voice—the one I’ve only heard in my dreams over the past five years—is no longer just a dream. The man it belongs to sits mere inches away from me, and I can’t believe he’s actually here, in my living room.
I refuse to take my eyes off him in fear that he just might disappear. “What are you doing here?”
He fidgets in his seat, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans as he sits in the high-backed chair across from the couch. “I didn’t know this was your address, if that’s what you’re asking. I was doing deliveries for Mom.”
I furrow my brow. “So you came here by mistake? How’s that even possible when you haven’t kept in touch with anyone in years?”
