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She shook her head. “With your schedule and mine, how could we possibly make it work? It’s four hours—at least—one way. And that’s if there is no construction or accidents on that windy-ass highway.”
“I don’t mind hanging out here on my days off while you’re at school. I have friends here I can see. And you can come to visit me on weekends.” The desperation in his tone at wanting to find a solution sent a throbbing ache into her solar plexus, and that reindeer antler started to twist in her chest.
“I don’t want to do distance. I want the full college experience. Plus, I have my volunteer work and my job. And have class until five o’clock on Fridays, and at eight-thirty Monday mornings. And I’ll be studying most weekends, or working at the care home. I can’t …” Rolling her lips inward to keep that insufferable tremble from happening, she glanced down at their intertwined hands. “And I don’t want you driving that road all the time, or in the dark and snow and rain …”
“But I’d do it to see you—”
“I know you would. But I couldn’t live with myself knowing you were on the road in a horrible rainstorm coming to see me and something terrible happened.” She pulled her hand free from his and cupped his face. “I love you too much.”
Green flames flickered in his eyes and he leaned into her palm. “I love you, too.”
“This promotion is important, isn’t it?”
He nodded stiffly, his gaze pinning her in place.
They both knew that something like this might happen. He was still too new to the RCMP and if he wanted to work his way up in the ranks, he needed to be flexible and go where they sent him. Maybe, when he got a little less green and a bit more experience under his belt, he could start putting in requests for places he actually wanted to live.
At least he was staying on the island …
But that knowledge did very little to soothe the growing ache in her chest.
This was the longest, most stable, and wonderful relationship she’d ever had, and now, at no fault of either of theirs, it was ending.
As hard as she tried to keep her eyes dry, a tear as rebellious as Rayma slid down the side of her cheek. “When do you leave?”
His throat moved on a hard swallow and a thick muscle ticked in his jaw below her pinky finger. “My first day at the new detachment is a month from today. I gave my notice to my landlord yesterday.”
Another hot tear burned a trail down her cheek, and then another. “So … do we end it now, so it hurts less in a month, or, do we make the most of the next thirty days and—”
He released her hand and invaded her space, cupping the back of her caramel-colored hair with his big palm and tugging slightly until her scalp stung. He tipped her head so she was forced to look up at him.
She could feel his erection pressing against her hipbone. The passion burning in his eyes was enough to give her third-degree burns, but she couldn’t look away. If anything, she wanted to walk straight into those flames and let them lick up the sides of her, warm her, and eventually engulf her.
“I’m not saying goodbye until the last fucking second,” he said, his voice dark and gritty and making her nipples tighten to stiff points. Sadness and arousal had her entire body trembling. The need to cry and never let go of him was sending her into a tailspin. She felt dizzy and the burn of unshed tears stung her eyes. “And neither are you.” Then he didn’t just take her mouth, he devoured it, and she let him. Because she loved him.
And she knew that a part of her always would.
Chapter 2
Chapter Two
September20thpresent day …
“A man isn’t anincelif he just appreciates and gravitates to the more traditional gender roles of society. I still think that women should have a right to vote and to work, but am I an asshole for wanting to be in a marriage where I make more money than my wife, and that she is the one who does the cooking, cleaning, laundry, and primary childcare? I don’t think so. There are still hundreds of cultures out there that adhere to this way of life and thrive. But I don’t think wanting my wife to be atypicalwife, makes me an incel.”
“No, it really fucking does,” Rayma said, taking a sip of her vodka soda and sneering at the guy who’d been talkingather for the last five minutes as she waited for her drink at the bar. Then, when the bartender gave her her drink, she was so boxed in against the old, worn wood, by the other thirty patrons that she was stuck listening to Ian the incel go on about family values and “women’s roles.”
“You don’t really understand,” Ian went on, not reading any of her body language or the way her eyes were aimlessly wandering the rest of the bar in search ofanythingoranyonethat could rescue her from this nightmare. Where was Peyton? “I’d be a good husband. A good provider. But I’d have expectations of my wife. A man ismeantto be the primary breadwinner. The alpha and protector in the relationship. And as a thank you for that protection and providing—”
Rayma held up her palm. “Wait, are youmansplainingyour misogyny to me?”
“It’s not misogyny. It’s just one way of thinking. But it’s really the waymostmen think. The feminist movement and this hatred toward men are new concepts, and it’s messing with the minds and ideologies of the younger generations. It’s why guys are struggling to find decent partners because women want—”
“Equal rights? Consent? Respect?”
“More than they deserve.”
Oh, if the drink in her hand hadn’t cost her nearly ten fucking dollars, she would have tossed it in Ian’s face. He looked like so many of the guys she used to date. Private school, old money, probably driving daddy’s Porsche or Jag, and he would have starter money from daddy for whatever business venture he wanted to start. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a stick up his ass, and an overwhelming sense of entitlement.
