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Emotion was easy to hold on to. It gripped hold of you like an icy winter, clinging until it was forced out by something stronger—something warmer.
Running was that for me.
A way of ridding myself, even momentarily, of the dark cloud that hung over me every day. Far from enjoyable but, dare I say it, now necessary. Necessary to shake off the occasional nightmare and more than occasional memory.
Maybe after all these years I should have been able to sleep better than I did. Maybe I should have been man enough to admit that the reason nobody was allowed to contact me before one p.m. wasn’t because I was sleeping but because I was running. Because I was escaping, taking in the past so I could confront the present.
That was what grief was. Accepting the past and confronting the past. The future had jack-all to do with it. It was collateral damage to the pain that wavered daily.
At least, that’s how it was to me.
Today, it was painful.
Mom’s birthday always was.
I wanted—needed—to forget her. She’d been my Achilles heel when she was alive and now, even in her death, she was still. God only knew she’d put herself in some dumb situations, but it was the final one that always got me—the one where I wasn’t able to help her.
Where I couldn’t save her.
Where no amount of punches I took for her would have mattered.
I slowed outside the coffee shop I’d parked outside earlier and scrubbed my hand through my hair. Sweaty, dirty, dank—I was a sight and scent for sore eyes, but it was barely eight. The only people awake were those who ran, like me, and the ones who had a job to get to.
Entering the small shop, I was able to get straight to the counter. The blond behind the counter was the same young girl who served me at least five days a week, but I was fucked if I knew her name. She momentarily frowned when I ordered two coffees instead of one, but she recovered quickly enough that anybody else wouldn’t notice the change in her demeanor.
Within seconds, she was back to her usual, flirtatious self. Usually, it wouldn’t bother me. I’d welcome it. Relish it, even. It would be a regular part of my day.
Today, I wanted her to shut the hell up and make my fucking coffee.
The minutes felt like a goddamn hour, and I grunted my “Thank you” as I paid. Then, once she’d printed the receipt I didn’t care about, I grabbed the cup holder and left.
If today were a few weeks ago, before I met Dahlia, I might have used the barista to make myself feel better. For my own selfish needs. There was no doubt she’d look damn pretty on her knees in front of me—but now, that thought mildly annoyed me.
The only person I wanted on their knees in front of me came with dark hair, blue eyes, and a cutting tongue.
I nestled the coffees onto the passenger seat before rounding the car and getting in the driver’s side. I had no idea if the woman currently consuming my thoughts was even at home, but hell, I’d done the thing I never did and bought her a coffee, so I was gonna go there anyway.
Ten minutes later, I was permitted past the security that surrounded her estate and drove through the large, black gates. While I’d known her address the moment I’d looked her up, I’d assumed she lived inside a community and that the gates that surrounded her property were part of that, but I was wrong. They were personal—hers. The gates protected only her house.
I pulled up the gravel driveway at a snail’s pace. I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous, but right now, as I put my car into park and twisted the key from the ignition, nerves tickled across my skin.
How would Dahlia react to me when, the last time we’d spoken, she’d blown me off and I’d been nothing but short and sharp with her?
In my defense—she’d pissed me off. While she was stern and organized professionally, she was the complete opposite personally. She was flaky and indecisive, the kind of person who needed corralling into just about everything.
Well, damn it.
The woman would have dinner with me at my house if it meant I had to throw her on my shoulder in her pajamas and fucking carry her there myself.
I gripped the coffee holder tight as I approached her front door. Wide, curved steps accented the rich, mahogany doors that were elaborately engraved, and my foot had barely hit the top step when one of those doors swung open.
Dahlia stood there in front of me, wearing a form-fitting, pale-pink dress and a scowl.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I drawled. “Is that the expression you usually have when someone brings you coffee?”
