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“That voice.”
“What about it?”
“It does things to me.”
“Like what?” He toyed with a lock of my hair.
“Why did you say that to me?” Why the hell hadn’t I thought before I spoke? I wasn’t ready for this conversation. Apparently, my mouth didn’t get the memo.
“Say what?”
“You love me,” I blurted. A wave of nausea jolted me. Damn it. If I threw up, it was going to hurt. That might be better than hearing his answer.
“It just came out.”
Yep. Throwing up would be better.
“You didn’t mean it.” The attempt to keep my voice devoid of emotion was an epic fail. Every bit of the disappointment I had no right to feel came through.
The bed dipped. Dim light illuminated the room. Patrick rolled over, his expression solemn.
“I meant it.”
My chest seized. Which was worse? When I thought he didn’t or knowing he did?
“Don’t expect me to.” Was it possible to punch myself in the face?
To his credit, he masked the flash of hurt pretty well. But I felt it.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The room went dark once more. I reached for him, but lost my courage and dropped my arm.
“Did you get Cricket out of jail?”
“She’s back at the shelter, but honestly, I think she’ll disappear.”
“After all Mrs. Quinn and Trish have done for her?”
He heaved out a long breath. “She didn’t say a word the entire time.”
“Is she guilty?”
“It looks bad.”
“Are you going to defend her?”
“What choice do I have?” He sounded tired.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“She’s been there before. I’ve seen people who haven’t. Any time in jail shakes them.”
“You didn’t want to defend another guilty person.”
“I was done after Abraham.”
“You’re sure he’s guilty?”
