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“How?”
He clenches his jaw, sliding back onto the couch. “I’ll figure it out. Just trust me, okay?”
I fall silent.
Could this work?
Could Connor truly help me out of this mess?
Breathing out deeply, I concede, too bone-tired to continue this fight alone, and nod.
“Good. And in the meantime I’m going to rip Morrisey’s fucking heart out of his chest,” he growls.
“You can’t just kill the Governor of California,” I say half-heartedly.
His eyes darken into something lethal—powerful.
“He was a dead man walking the moment he touched my fucking wife,” he rasps.
His words hold such intensity that in that very moment I choose to believe him. Even if there’s a million hurdles left to overcome, I allow a small bubble of hope to take up residence inside my chest.
“Okay,” I simply say.
Because what elsecanI say?
He pulls me into his arms and I let him. Silence surrounds us, both of us now lost in our own thoughts. I find comfort in his calming scent of cedarwood and orange blossom, sinking even deeper into his embrace. I listen to the beat of his heart, strong and steady while my eyelids eventually grow too heavy to stay open. I fall asleep in Connor’s arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t know how long I sleep for but when I wake up, Connor is still sitting close by, watching me. My heart pinches at the sight but I try to ignore it.
“Please tell me you weren’t watching me this whole time—that’d be creepy, even for you,” I say, mostly in an effort to break the tension between us.
He laughs, low and soft and it feels like silk on my sleep-warm skin.
“No… just thinking, that’s all.”
“About?”
His eyes soften, his gaze still fixed on me. He swipes his hand through his hair, smoothing back a few errant strands out of his face. His movements feel intentional, like he’s biding his time while considering something quietly behind his hard facade.
“I still can’t believe it was you in that diner, Lenix.”
My eyes close at the tone of his voice, unwilling to see what emotion is attached to those words. When I reopen them, I stare at my hands and let out a single dry chuckle.
“Yeah me neither…”
Suddenly, I’m on my feet, feeling too raw—too broken open, eager to have something to do and not have to succumb to Connor’s longing stare. I head to the kitchen and pull out a half empty bottle of tequila and pour us each a glass, not even bothering to ask if he wants one—I know he will.
“I don’t even know why I’ve kept it all these years…” The words stumble out of my lips like an afterthought.
“Kept what?”
Taking a deep breath, I slink back to the couch and hand him one of the glasses.
“My wedding dress…” I laugh dejectedly. “Ironic, if you think about it… The one day I wish I could forget and I’m holding on to the most fucked up part of it. ”
I expect him to laugh. To return this awkward sentiment. But his eyes darken instead, licking his lips and then his mouth twitches like he’s readying for a kill.
“Put it on,” he says. His tone is serious—deadly.
