Her eyes glint in the firelight. “Then what were you trying to do?”
I stare at her, at the blanket wrapped tight around her body, at the pulse fluttering at her throat. I open my mouth, but no words come.
She shakes her head slowly, like she can’t decide if she’s angry or gutted. “I told you last night I didn’t want safe. I wanted you.” Her voice wavers.
“I’m still me,” I say. “That’s all I know how to be.”
Her laugh is small, bitter. I have no idea what it means.
She rises from the couch, wrapping the blanket tighter, and for a second I think she’s going to leave. Maybe go to the bedroom, grab her bag, and storm out into the dreary day. But she stops at the edge of the rug and turns back to me, her shoulders rigid.
“I don’t even know what to do with this,” she says, almost to herself.
My throat tightens. “Stay,” I say, the word scraped bare. “Please.”
She doesn’t turn. The blanket slips a little, showing the curve of her shoulder. Her hair falls like a curtain, hiding her face.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know if I can.”
And that’s where it lands.
The storm outside has passed, but in here, it’s still rolling, still building.
Twenty-Five
Tabitha
The cabin smells like sex.
Not surprising, of course.
Above the scent of rain, the fragrance of the burning wood…
All I smell is the musky aroma of sex.
What if Henry didn’t want me here at all?
His confession—the cabin was Angie’s idea—sits like a stone in my stomach. I already knew, but the fact that he mentioned it again…
He didn’t plan this. He didn’t invite me. I’m a guest at a retreat I didn’t know I was attending, thrown into the arms of a man I can’t stop wanting but can’t quite trust.
I head to my room. My hands shake as I pull on my sweats and a hoodie, the blanket dropping to the floor. The air inside the cabin feels too close, like it’s pressing against my ribs.
I need air.
Again.
My shoes are somewhere in the great room, but I grab my flip-flops and slip them on. I sneak out the back way. Henry’s still on the couch, and he doesn’t notice.
Or if he does, he pretends he doesn’t.
Outside, the rain is still pattering. The ground is spongy under my feet.
I sit on a patio chair, just looking. Taking in the beauty before me. I’m getting wet, of course, but I don’t care. The rain feels good. Like it’s washing something away from me.
The mist is thicker by the stream, curling off the water in ribbons. I rise, walk toward the water, and crouch to splash some on my face. It’s cold, a jolt that almost helps. I stay there for a minute, breathing, until my pulse steadies.
I return to the deck and sit.
