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The man she did love. So what if it wasn’t the mad, passionate sort of thing she’d experienced in the past. With Shane. That kind of love had nearly destroyed her.
“Shit,” she said hoarsely. “What have I done?”
But there was no quick reply of advice. No words to make her feel better. And as her eyes strayed to the bed once more, her gut rolled and she thought she was going to be sick. Had she slept with Shane last night? Would she be that stupid?
I just walked out on the man who could have given me everything and I’m asking myself if I’m stupid or not?
“What are you going to do?” Billie prodded gently.
Bobbi took a moment. She forced her stomach to settle and tucked her wild hair behind her ears. She licked her dry lips and shrugged. “I have no idea. I have to make things right with Gerald.”
“And that’s what you want.”
“Yes,” she exhaled. “It’s what I want.”
But I have to find Shane first.
Carefully she let herself out of the bedroom and stepped into an open concept loft. Shane rented the old carriage house on Logan Forest’s property—she knew this—but Bobbi was surprised at how warm and welcoming the place was. Large windows let in an abundance of natural light, emphasizing the warm oak floors, and dark leather furniture.
A large table to the right caught her attention and her fingers trailed over it as she walked by. It looked like teak, maybe? But the design was simple. Sturdy.
And expensive looking.
Her brow furled. How in the hell was Shane able to afford something like this? It must have cost a small fortune. As far as she knew he’d never made amends with his father, so she was fairly certain Shane’s dad wasn’t funneling Gallagher family money into his home.
She glanced around the large, open, space once more, taking in the muted palette of moss green, rich oak and black. It was masculine and yet elegant. Everything about the room was so well put together that she had to wonder…was Shane involved with someone? Was this the work of a woman’s touch?
Pia barked twice and Bobbi jumped, her heart taking off like a rocket as she whirled around—a little too fast—and she clutched her head and groaned.
Where was Shane?
She spied the dog near the stairs and watched the little fireball disappear down them and it was then that she realized he must be below. For a few seconds she was frozen in her spot, but then she gave herself a mental shake down and forced herself to move.
“Just get it over with,” she muttered.
Bobbi made her way over to the stairs and peered down. Her feet were still bare and she wrinkled her toes against the cool floor boards, as she inhaled a host of scents that seemed out of place. Wood. Oils. Sharp and metallic scents.
Carefully she made her way down, though she hesitated on the last step, her heart in her chest, her skin cold and clammy.
For one brief moment she thought of running back upstairs. Of hiding beneath the tangled mess of blankets on the bed. Of closing her eyes and doing her best to forget everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours.
But then the damn dog appeared at her feet and outed her with one yelp. Before she lost her nerve, Bobbi stepped off and turned the corner.
She could say that her heart nearly fell out of her chest because she was damn surprised at what she found—it looked like a freaking furniture store, and the paintings…the paintings were incredible. Vivid. Bleak. Raw.
But, they only held her attention for a moment because her hungry eyes found Shane seconds later and her entire body felt as if it had been dipped in hot, electric, water.
He was bent over a long piece of wood, running a sander over the dark lines. Slowly. Back and forth. The muscles in his arms and shoulders drew her attention—pretty hard not to, when he wore nothing but a pair of faded jeans that hung dangerously low on his hips. His feet were bare and as her gaze traveled up his back, she rested her eyes on the intricate tattoo that adorned the back of his left shoulder.
It was new and she wondered if he still had the one. That special one on his left bicep. A sheen of sweat covered his skin as he worked the sander in slow, methodic strokes.
He turned slightly, his profile, way too damn intoxicating, the strong lines of his nose, his jaw and chin, too achingly familiar. His hair, always longer than the norm, touched the tops of his shoulders, the thick coffee colored waves, shining from the light above him.
An image of her hands buried in his hair as he nuzzled her breasts flashed before her eyes and Bobbi’s breath caught in the back of her throat.
Ear buds were in place and for the moment he didn’t know she was there. Bobbi’s hand crept up behind her right ear, to the place that had always belonged to him, to the mark he’d put there—the one that matched his—and something inside her twisted so painfully she gasped.
The dog barked.
