“What doesthatmean? I wasn’t running from something, just running. For exercise.” My eyes narrow slightly, offended by his observation.
Mostly because he’s right, and a little because I’m tired of him reading so damn easily.
“Is that why you’re crying? Because ofexercise?” Atticus begins to walk toward me, and I press myself against the large tree I was using as a crutch only moments ago.
He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me, lips quirked, watching me like a lion that has finally trapped its first meal of the winter.
“I’m not crying,” I insist.
In a flash, Atticus lifts a hand to wipe at my cheeks, collecting the few tears that have fallen. He rubs his fingertips together, humming softly. “I believe otherwise, Cameron.”
I shiver, once again thrown off balance by how confidently he speaks my name. Like he owns it.
“I was just… It’s not like that.” I’m floundering once more, always a mess in his presence.
What fucked up irony that, of course, I’d end up near Chastain Castle, unable to hide.
“You’re not going to tell me?” Atticus pries.
Suddenly, I’m angry. I don’t normallygetangry, but after the morning I had and the way I feel far too exposed, I can’t help it. I want him to fuck off, to touch me, to disappear.
“I don’t have to explain shit to you,” I spit out, my hands clenching at my sides. “I’m just on a run.”
Annnnd, I’m explaining myself anyway. Pathetic.
Something dark flashes in Atticus’s eyes, and the same hand that just tenderly wiped my tears whips out, clutching my chin and pressing my head softly against the tree trunk behind me.
“Donotlie to me,” he demands.
“Don’t lie, son. I’m yourmother,”Mom’s voice rings in my ears, making me tremble.
My eyes begin to water once more.
Atticus’s expression does not change, but his grip on my chin loosens just slightly, and he tilts his head a bit to the left. Assessing.
“What has happened to you?” he murmurs, leaning in closer.
“Nothing,” I insist once more. He does not believe it.
“Nothing,” Atticus repeats. “Then why are you trembling? This doesn’t feel the same as when you shuddered against me the other night.”
I flush, my eyes dropping to stare at his broad chest. I’m embarrassed, ashamed by my own desire, and on the verge of genuinely falling apart.
“Just… a hard morning,” I supply, giving him some bit of honesty and hoping it’ll appease him.
It does.
“Aw,” Atticus coos softly, his fingers beginning to rub a soothing pattern over my jaw. I start to melt in his grasp. “A hard morning? Are you sad and tired? Are you lonely?”
I can’t tell if his tone is biting or kind; Atticus is so impossible to read. But he’s not wrong, and it kind of feels nice to admit it to him.
Nice and embarrassing.
I nod anyway.
“I’ll help you, then, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along mine just as he did in Cassie’s guestroom.
My breathing stutters to a stop, and I tense up, anticipating his touch. “I don’t think—”
