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Hope barely moved as he drove to his home. Their home. At least that’s how he thought of it. Regardless of the short time she’d been there, she’d embedded the house with her personality and he missed it. Missed her.
There had been snow on the ground the last time she’d been there. But now all was gone and the beautiful Vermont summer weather was upon them.
One of his favorite memories was sitting on the back porch with her, wrapped up in thick quilts as they watched the snow fall, a fire burning in the pit. Of course, that was before he’d carried her inside for activities that were a lot less in the clothing department and a lot more up close and personal.
For the seven hundredth time, he wished he’d never let her get up out of bed that morning. Just kept her there.
He parked her rental in his drive. His sister’s car remained as she’d grabbed a ride in with him before they’d split off on their own.
Mitchell hoped like hell it wasn’t his wishful imagination that had her eyeing the vehicle with a hint of jealousy. She hopped out and paused at the front of the Jeep, face completely impassive.
Placing himself at her elbow, he grabbed her and moved her to the door. While he took it as a win she didn’t yank away from his touch, he was far from declaring victory. The woman didn’t bend in the slightest. There wasn’t a hint of give.
He sighed and bit the inside of his bottom lip as uncertainty rushed over him. His breaths were a struggle for him to catch in his chest and he hated this. Fuck, even sweat had begun to bead and roll down his spine. Flustered didn’t even begin to cover it.
Mitchell reached around her and opened the door, using his larger form to nudge her inside. The moment he closed the door, she initiated space between them. Space he didn’t want or approve of, but he wasn’t an asshole.
Well, yes I am. But damn it, I’m her asshole.
He dropped her keys in the small, slate-blue, slightly lopsided glazed clay dish that Greer had made for him at the center and moved to where he could look Hope in the eyes.
She was a wall. Blank.
“I’m sorry.”
Hope blinked. “Is that it? Because I have things to do.” Her voice was a sexy southern accent.
“No, that’s not it. Christ, Hope. I’m trying here. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She took a deep breath and gave him a small, sad tilt of her lips. “I don’t want you to say anything, Mr. Anderson.”
“Fucking call me Mitchell. I’m Mitchell to you.” He yanked at his hair, breath short, and he swore he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. “I’m your Mitchell.”
Hope simply watched him.
He shook his head and pounded a hand against his thigh. “Fuck me, Flykra. I’m lost without you in my life. You were the only thing in my life that was real.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Are you seriously quoting a movie to me right now?”
He paused as he ran over the words he’d said. “They have the lines that make sense.” They’d not even talked about Blue Is the Warmest Color and until she’d mentioned it, he hadn’t recalled the line had even been in that movie. “I’m shit at relationships, Hope. Shit at them.”
And here he was going to blab it all out, hoping to God she gave him another fucking chance because if she didn’t, well, he wasn’t sure what he would do.
“Congratulations.” She stepped away from him and picked up the keys he’d dropped, palming them.
His heart broke when she turned to the door and reached for the handle. Actual fucking tears burned his eyes at the thought of losing this woman, again, forever. He rushed up behind her, slapping one hand against the door, holding it closed as he crowded her from behind.
Even now, the memory of her curves against him pumped fire through his veins. He lowered his head and nuzzled her hair away until he reached her ear.
“Don’t leave me, Flykra. I love you.”
A shudder ripped through her entire body. “Are you kidding me?” She turned so they faced one another. “You’re telling me you love me? You. Love me? A woman who, according to you, lied about who I was and put myself through hell just to try and get an exclusive story from you about this computer company I had no fucking clue about? Let’s not even forget I’m not a goddamn reporter.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I’m a science journalist. I’m goddamn Dr. Hope Roman.”
Mitchell mouthed the words as she said them.
“I know you are, and short of saying I was, am, a fool for letting my mother get back into my head, I have no excuse.” He clenched his hand to keep from settling it upon her hip.
