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CHAPTER EIGHT
Adam
Faith stared at me with those big blue eyes that had been my undoing from the moment I’d first caught a glimpse of her—the perfect porcelain princess. The preacher’s daughter. So damn untouchable. So unattainable. I’d wanted to be near her so badly, even as a kid, I could hardly breathe. It was like my heart knew, even then, that it beat for her... that she would be my perfect heartbreak.
“Adam.” Her brows pulled together in frustration.
I shook my head and turned away, but she stretched over and snagged the remote, turning off the television and plunging us into silence. Still, I refused to look at her. I dropped my head and cupped the back of my neck. “Can’t you just—?”
“No!”
My head snapped up at the vehemence in her voice, matching the fiery anger in her eyes.
“How fucking dare you!” she spat, letting her legs swing to the ground, making poor Lancelot jump down and relocate to his bed in the corner.
“Faith—”
“You weren’t alone under that bridge six years ago.” She poked a finger at her chest. “I was there, too, or did you forget?”
I narrowed my eyes at her. Like I could possibly forget.
“I get what you’re saying about protecting yourself in prison,” she said, pulling her legs back underneath her. “But what protected me from you? You shattered me.” She glanced away, her voice faltering, her jaw tightening, forcing back the emotion. “I mean, damn, Adam... wouldn’t you want a say if the tables had been turned?” She shook her head slightly, glancing down as she focused on tucking the blanket back over her legs. “Wouldn’t you want one now?”
Silence rang between us as we sat there, her quiet words echoing through the room.
She inhaled a fortifying breath. “Okay. Now you can talk.”
“You sure?”
She nodded and waved as if giving me the floor.
I sat there a long beat, my mind working through all the things I could say. The things I wanted to say, the things I should, and the things I knew I never could. I finally settled on the one thing I owed her.
“I’m sorry.”
Her delicate brows lifted to her hairline. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
She let the moment draw out, clearly waiting for more. When I added nothing, she huffed out a breath. “That’s it? Care to elaborate or...?”
“What more do you want?”
Hurt flashed across her face as she studied me. “Nothing.” She moved to stand. “You’re sorry. Great. Thanks.”
“Where are you going?” I demanded as she tapped her leg at Lancelot to follow her.
“Bed,” she ground out.
“Faith,” I called to her back, confused. I’d apologized, but it only seemed to make her madder.
I let her go and settled in to try and get some sleep.
It didn’t work. I tossed and turned, listening for any peep from the other room, wondering why she was upset with me. I knew she probably wanted pretty words to go with that apology; I just didn’t have them. I’d already said much more than I’d ever intended.
I finally dozed off, only to have my phone’s buzzing wake me what felt like a couple of minutes later.
I glanced at the time. Just after six a.m.
