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“There’s this loneliness that comes with freedom. I get not wanting to take care of someone else. But cutting that out means someone else isn’t taking care of you.”
“I do miss that. But not as much as I’d miss doing whatever the fuck I want.”
I dip my head. “That’s valid. But how about you let me? Take care of you, I mean, for the rest of the weekend. At this point, it’s barely more than twenty-four hours anyway. You can say it’s pretend, or you can say it’s real. Whatever the case, I’m enjoying it.”
I got nothing to prove here, other than not all men are pieces of shit. And yeah, maybe I wanna show her what I saw in my parents growing up, and what I see now in Bel and Beau, and Samuel and Emma. A healthy, happy relationship, where respect is mutual and so is admiration and support.
“Hank,” she says, “isn’t that just gonna blur the lines even more?”
“Probably. But I can handle it.” I tuck her hair behind her ear and lower my voice. “I’m not ready for you to leave yet. We’ve still got lots of rooms to make lots of messes in. And we’re somehow supposed to squeeze in a trip to the Biltmore too.”
Stevie’s eyes light up, and pain arrows through my chest.
I can handle this, right?
I hate the idea that today’s my last full day with Stevie. Tomorrow morning, we won’t be able to sip our coffee while writing songs; Stevie will be busy packing up, and I’ll be busy trying not to care.
If I’ve only got twenty-four hours left with Stevie, I’m gonna make the most of them. And there’s this voice inside me—this tiny, stupidly optimistic voice—that tells me twenty-four hours is all I’ll need. To do what, I don’t know. Showing her what a healthy relationship looks like is only part of it, but it feels important to claim those hours anyway and make them count.
“I do want to see the Biltmore.”
“And I want to get the fuck back inside. But Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“You said we were friends.”
She smiles, skin around her eyes crinkling. “We are.”
“Friends don’t treat each other the way your ex treated you.”
She looks away. “That’s a sweet thought.”
The lyric comes to me as I’m opening the door for Stevie and following her inside.
Sinner or saint, now I know which one I ain’t.
But goddamn, I’d hoped being on the saintly end of the spectrum would make me feel better. I’ve been a sinner for so long—that kiss with Emma feels like a decade ago—that I figured anything would be preferable to living under a cloud of guilt.
This arrow in my chest, though? It feels just as bad.
In fact, it feels worse.
Chapter Twenty
Stevie
“You think we can trust Rhett not to say anything?” I ask.
Hank and I are waiting at the stoplight just outside the Biltmore’s entrance. There’s a pretty stone gatehouse ahead decked out in white Christmas lights; beyond that, a forest of towering trees obscures the view.
Hank adjusts his hand on the top of the steering wheel. “Rhett’s a good kid. But he hasn’t been himself lately, so . . . yeah. Let’s hope for the best—”
“But prepare for the worst.” I glance up at the ceiling of the car. It’s covered in hundreds of tiny pinpricks of light, a sky of artificial stars. “Right.”
Hank’s got a garage full of cars, but the black on black Rolls Royce Wraith was his first pick for today’s outing. It’s just the right combination of classy and badass, and judging by the way Hank drives it—patiently, proudly, with one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh—he knows that.
He ducks his head just as the light turns green. He accelerates through the intersection, and I can’t help but stare. He is so fucking sexy. Freshly showered and shaved, his jawline gleams, and hazel eyes are bright, despite our almost complete lack of sleep over the past couple of nights. He’s wearing a puffer vest over a sweater and dark jeans, and the woodsy scent of his cologne fills the car.
Longing blossoms in my center. I tear my gaze away from him and look out the window.
“What should our plan be if Rhett doesn’t keep our secret?”
Hank squeezes my thigh. “How about we cross that bridge when we get there? I don’t wanna think about it, to be honest.”
I don’t wanna waste time because we’ve got so little of it.
Watching the trees thicken around us, I wonder for the thousandth time if I’m doing the right thing or if I’m needlessly torturing everyone.
And for the thousandth time, I decide sticking to my guns is the right call. Because that’s how the resentment starts—with small forfeits and denials and accommodations and questions. Are my expectations too high? Why ask for more when I should be thankful for what I’ve got?
