Page 114 of The Image of You

My gaze drifted back to the windows. Rivulets of rain ran down the large glass panes in a constant stream. Lightning lit up the sky, thunder rolled behind the bright strikes in long, slow rumbles. I set my mug on the table beside me and relaxed back in the chair.

Ally loved this chair. She always looked so good, snuggled in the corner, reading. She looked even better curled up on my lap as we watched a movie or when she nestled into me as a storm, much like this one, would rage outside. She hated storms and would burrow herself as close to me as possible. The very best moments, though, were when we would make love in this chair, slow and sensual or fast and furious—pressed together, wrapped in each other. Nothing else mattered in those moments—nothing but us.

I looked around the loft, thinking how it had changed since the day she entered my life. The thick, padded stools were in place at the counter—the spot we would sit and eat together, exchanging news of our days. The bed, adorned with the softest sheets and warmest duvet in a golden brown that she picked to match the leather. She said the color reminded her of my eyes.

Long white curtains hung in the windows, along with the blinds I’d added that ensured our privacy. Bright artwork and thick throw rugs made it a welcoming space. Or at least it had been when she was with me.

Now, the sheets remained cold, the bed rarely used. The blinds were dusty from misuse, and the stools were barely sat on. I hadn’t been here in months, and since I’d gotten back, I was rarely in the loft. It felt like home when she was with me. Now it felt like an empty memory, and I disliked being here.

Rapid, furious knocking interrupted my thoughts. With a frown, I pulled myself out of the chair and walked over to the door, wondering who the hell would be at my door at five a.m. Very few people had the access code to the elevator.

I looked through the peephole and, with a curse, flung open the door.

Ally stood there, dripping wet. Her hair clung to her head and shoulders—a dark-red ribbon of wet silk. Against the ghostly pallor of her skin, her eyes were wild, the vivid blue standing out. She gazed at me frantically, those startling eyes red-rimmed and watery. Her chest heaved, and she shook from head to toe, her teeth chattering as she tried to speak. She clutched one arm to her torso, her hand a tight fist, a small bag held in her other hand. I dragged her frozen body into the loft, half carrying her to the chair I had just vacated. Pulling off her wet coat, I snagged the blanket from the back of the chair, wrapping it around her. I lifted my mug to her trembling lips and cupped the back of her head. “Drink, baby. It’ll warm you up.”

She took a deep swallow, a shudder running through her. Her panicked eyes focused on my face. “I was so afraid—” she gasped.

“What? Afraid of what, Ally?”

Tears poured down her face, and her shaking increased. I used the blanket to rub her hair, yanked off my sweatshirt, and pulled it over her head.

“Tell me.”

“I was afraid you’d be gone.”

I rubbed her back, desperate to warm her. Her skin was frozen.

“I’m right here.” I pulled her close, dropping a heavy kiss onto her forehead. “Why are you out in this storm? You hate storms.”

“You know that,” she sobbed.

“Yes.”

Her voice was incredulous. “You know me.”

“Yes.”

She cupped my face. “I know you,” she breathed.

My heart hammered in my chest. “What?”

She opened her clenched hand, and light glinted on the silver chain she was holding. Attached was the nightingale pendant—the first gift I’d sent her.

“I remember you.” Another sob escaped her lips. “I remember us.”

Thunder rumbled as I stared at her. “Say that again.”

“You. Me. Us. I remember us, Adam.”

My throat was so constricted, only one word came out. I tightened my hands on her skin, frantic to know this was real. I had to know I was awake and not dreaming this moment. “How?”

“After you kissed me and I ran, I was so upset…”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She shook her head furiously. “No. You don’t understand. I wasn’t upset that you kissed me. I was upset because how it made me feel. I was so guilty.”

“Why?”