He’s right.
My throat spasms.
My blood runs cold.
Because if she had gotten down on one knee, I would’ve said yes.
In a fucking heartbeat.
Zero hesitation.
“Shit—” I break into a run.
The screen door slamming behind me cracks like a rifle. I pound up the stairs like my shoes are on fire.
But when I reach it, my bedroom door is open, the room empty. I wheel around thinking she’s retreated to the bathroom, but that door stands open too. That’s when I see it. The door to the spare room—Grif’s old room across the hall—is closed.
Panting, I only just stop myself from banging on it. I know Hattie. She won’t appreciate banging. She might not even appreciate a soft knock.
I force myself to take three deep breaths. She can probably already hear me out here—unless she’s got her headphones on. But I give myself a minute to think about what I need to say.
“Hattie—honey, can I come in?”
Silence.
I count to ten.
More silence.
“Hattie? Can we talk...? Please?”
When silence answers me, I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing because I know just how long she can go without talking to me.
And this time, I have no one to blame but myself.
“Hattie, I’m sorry. Please let me try to explain.” I’m not above begging.
I hear footsteps approaching. I hold my breath, waiting for the door to open.
It doesn’t.
But she must put her mouth right up to the door jamb because her words are loud and clear—if a little wet and thick.
“I already said we’re not talking anymore tonight.”
And, just like that, her footsteps retreat.
Shit. I’ve hurt her.
Fuck me.
She doesn’t want to talk to me. But I can’t wait until tomorrow. Sleep across the hall from her? Knowing how badly I’ve fucked up?
No way.
I lower my head to her door with a soft thunk.
“I messed up, Hattie,” I confess softly, holding out hope. “I understand you don’t want to talk, but will you maybe listen?”
