Page 59

“Carry me,” she whines, barely more than a whisper. Her arms are already sliding around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What? Blaire, I—”

“Please, Si.” Her breath is hot against my neck as she buries her face there, and my heart stutters hard enough to knock the rest of the protest right out of me.

I swallow hard, wrap my arms around her, and lift her out of the truck. She hums happily, nuzzling into my chest like she’s exactly where she wants to be. I adjust her weight and carry her up the walkway.

“I need your key to get in,” I say when we reach her door.

She huffs in annoyance, then flops one arm off my shoulder and fishes around in her bra like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A second later she’s dangling the key ring in front of my face.

“Thanks,” I mutter, choking on a laugh as I take the keys without dropping her. It takes some awkward maneuvering, but I manage to unlock the door and shoulder it open.

Inside, the apartment is dark except for the soft glow of the stove light and a small lamp in the living room. It smells like her—vanilla and something faintly citrus.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I say quietly, already heading down the short hallway.

“Will you stay?” she asks, lifting her head to look at me with those huge, glassy eyes. Her arms tighten around my neck so I can’t set her down even if I wanted to.

In the low light, she looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—makeup smudged beneath her eyes, lips parted and slightly swollen from where she’s been pressing them against my shirt, hair a wild tangle from the wind and the truck window. She’s never looked more like the girl I fell in love with and nothing like the guarded woman she’s become around me.

I debate telling her I shouldn’t. That it’s a bad idea. But I can’t bring myself to leave her alone like this, and some selfish, desperate part of me is hoping that maybe, if I stay until morning, I’ll finally find the courage to say what I need to say.

“I’ll stay on the couch,” I tell her, my voice dropping an octave lower than usual, thick with everything I’m holding back.

“No,” she whines, shaking her head. “In my bed.”

“Blaire.” I say her name slow and careful, trying to ignore the rush of heat that floods south at the thought of climbing into her bed. “You’re drunk. You don’t mean that. I’ll stay on the couch in case you need me, but—”

“I do mean it.” Her voice is suddenly clearer, steadier, even through the slur. She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, and the raw honesty there almost knocks me flat. “I want you to stay.”

“Blaire…” I set her down gently, keeping one hand anchored at her hip. I tell myself it’s only to steady her, but who am I kidding—I’m not ready to stop touching her. The warmth of her skin seeps through the thin fabric of her top, and my fingers flex involuntarily against her. “Why are you doing this?” I choke out, my heart lodged so high in my throat it’s a wonder I can speak at all.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, glassy but unflinching. I watch her take a slow, deliberate breath, like she’s settling something deep inside herself. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but certain.

“Because I’m still in love with you,” she says. “And I’m too drunk to pretend I’m not.”

I blink at her.

Anything I could possibly say lodges itself somewhere between my heart and my tongue. For one suspended second I forget how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything except stare at the woman in front of me like the ground has just shifted under my boots.

She’s still in love with me.

Blaire sways on her feet, and my fingers tighten instinctively at her hip, anchoring her—and maybe myself. The words keep looping through my head, loud and impossible.

I’m still in love with you.

She’s looking up at me with those big, glassy eyes, every bit the girl I once knew and nothing like the guarded woman she’s learned to be around me. There’s fear there too, raw and unguarded, like she’s already bracing for me to break her heart all over again.

I swallow hard, throat thick. “I never stopped loving you.”

Her bottom lip trembles as the words leave my mouth, fresh tears welling in her eyes and threatening to spill over.

“My sweet girl,” I whisper, lifting my free hand to gently wipe a tear from her cheek with my thumb.

“I thought… you didn’t… when we were…” She stammers, a dozen different sentences trying to break free all at once.

I shake my head, already knowing every fear she’s carrying. “I was young. And stupid. And terrified I wouldn’t be the kind of husband you deserved. I never—not for a single second—stopped loving you. Or wanting you.”