Page 93 of Second Chance Saloon

Jackie jerked, pulling her hand away.

His half-open eyes watched her intently.

“Why does it remind you of me?” Her voice trembled with subconscious fear, since she suspected that she already knew the answer.

“The accident … It was the night I decided to stop looking for you. The night I realized you weren’t coming back.”

Every bone, every muscle, in her body throbbed with visceral pain. Her heart squeezed so tightly against her chest that she was certain it’d stop working.

“When did you stop looking for me?” she whispered, against her better judgement.

Mitch blinked at her and took a deep breath. “After I saw photos of you kissing that French actor all over the internet.”

All remaining color leached from her face. “Philippe.” He was nobody important. A temporary distraction, a fling. “I’m so sorry you had to see that,” she said softly.

His eyes flitted to hers and ensnared her gaze. “Until then, I’d hoped you’d come back. No one from your family would tell me anything.”

Jackie swallowed. She knew that part; she’d asked them not to, and everyone reluctantly kept their word.

Mitch pressed the heels of his hands into his face, covering his eyes. “After I saw those photos … I didn’t want to feel or think, it was too much. Nick dragged me to a party, I kept drinking, and drinking. I don’t remember much. I woke up in hospital a week later, with my femur shattered and some other scrapes.”

He exhaled, and Jackie inhaled at the same time, as if she wanted to soak in some of his pain. Stinging tears burned her eyeballs like acid. She would’ve taken all of his pain away if she could.

He dragged his shaky hands away from his face, water rimming his eyelids. “I didn’t say it to hurt you. I don’t want to keep any secrets from you.”

“You should hate me.” Her voice shook with rage at her own stupidity. He could’ve died and it would’ve been her fault. And she wouldn’t have even known.

Of course, she had no idea paparazzi were staking out the periphery of Philippe’s villa. They met in a club and wanted to have a good time, no strings attached. It didn’t last long—none of them ever did. They all blended into a cacophony of orgasms. One-night stands weren’t foreign to her either.

That kiss with Philippe was the catalyst for the internet’s sudden interest in her. Maybe it was fun for people to watch the undoing of her life. As soon as she stopped doing anything gossip-worthy, they left her alone. That “popular” spell of being dubbed “the party heiress” had only lasted two years or so. But the damage it had done?

Her gaze slid back to Mitch’s thigh, her throat clogging with thick regret. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, painfully aware it was nowhere near enough.

“Don’t be sorry for the scar. You didn’t tell me to smash a motorcycle,” Mitch mumbled, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Jackie sniffed, getting up. “I’m sorry I left you when I should’ve stayed and let you help me through it. If I had, it probably wouldn’t have taken me years to come to terms with it.”

Mitch didn’t respond, already asleep.

She watched him for a moment; sleep smoothed the worry lines from his handsome face.

Her heart rattled inside her chest, hot blood thumping in her ears and blurring her vision. Their conversation replayed in her mind like someone put together a playlist of her biggest mistakes, with this one soaring straight to number one.

Silent tears snaked down her cheeks, and she swiped the back of her hand to wipe them away. They just kept flowing.

Watching Mitch sleep, as she was about to turn and walk away from him, brought her right back to that night ten years ago. Leaving not only him, but her entire life behind seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck, who was she kidding; it was the only idea, the only solution she could think of back then. Now, if someone had given her a way to travel back in time, she would’ve jumped back to that morning when she snuck out of Mitch’s bed and she would’ve never left.

“I wish I stayed,” she whispered into the quiet night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mitch

Mitch couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hungover. Well, at least prior to his sham wedding. Overindulgence following that didn’t count. But this, the splitting headache and bone-dry mouth? It was almost like a throwback to parties with Colt and Kit during his summers working at the Brooke’s Plains.

He groaned, cracking one eye open.

Sunlight flooded his room. What time was it? He didn’t think he’d gotten much sleep; he certainly didn’t feel like it. Blindly reaching for his phone, his hand stopped when it hit a glass. He pushed himself to a sitting position, glancing at the nightstand.