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“Okay.” I hated waiting, but heaven help me, I believed him. And I could forgive him for whatever it was, though anyone who knew anything about forgiveness understood that act wasn’t a one-time thing. I would probably be forgiving him for his actions for a bit while I worked through my hurt about what had happened. I was stronger now, too. Bristol at twenty-four was far different from shattered Bristol at eighteen and a half. I needed to remember that.
“I know you’re sorry,” I conceded. “Let’s…table it, then.” I shrugged. “Whatever it is you have locked up inside you, I do know the past is the past. We can’t change it, can we?”
He glanced down at his plate, and I realized neither of us had touched the food he’d made.
“I can regret what happened—how it happened—and try to fix it.”
“Let’s eat before things get colder. And talk about that afterward, then.” To veer away from the heavy talk, I picked up a piece of crunchy bacon, cooked dark, exactly as I liked it. “Mmm…perfect.”
Axel smiled, picking up his own piece that wasn’t done quite as much, since he contended I ate my bacon burnt. “Just the way you like it.”
“You remember.”
“I remember everything,” he murmured.
Tears burned my eyes, and I stared down at my plate while I forced them away. We ate in silence for a few minutes, each lost in our thoughts, each stealing glances at one another. Neither of us very stealthy.
“It’s nice outside. Warm,” Axel said as we both sipped our second cups coffee. “Would you be interested in walking along the boardwalk? For old times?”
Old times… Could we get back there and recapture what we’d had? For better or worse, I was coming to terms with the fact I wanted it with all my heart.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that after I get ready for the day. No pajamas on the boardwalk for me.”
“Fun hater,” he joked.
“That’s me. Boring librarian.”
“There’s not a damn thing boring about you, Bristol.”
My breath caught, instant reaction twisting low in my belly and sending a flutter through me clear to my fingertips and toes. My teeth sank into my bottom lip as I stared into his intense chocolate-brown eyes. Speechless, I swallowed hard and tried to grapple for my equilibrium that was long gone.
Grinning, Axel climbed to his feet and pressed his lips to the top of my head again before heading to the sink.
Sixteen
Bristol
“Alright… Explain what’s been going on with the whole media thing that brought you back to town,” I said as we walked along the boardwalk. We’d been strolling along the cement walkway, bordered by a blue-painted steel railing, for a half hour. Keeping it light, we’d talked about our jobs and our families. But I couldn’t hold in my questions for a second longer.
In response to my question, Axel’s fingers tightened on mine. He’d grabbed my hand when we’d gotten out of the car earlier, and I hadn’t tried to pull away. I didn’t have it in me. It was a new morning, and I was trying to get over myself, forcing my brain to stand down and let my heart lead.
Iwantedmy fingers linked with his.
“From what you’ve said, there’s been some sort of media smear on you over the last few months,” I continued. “You were pretty adamant about the situation at your parents’ house the other day, even though you didn’t elaborate on it.”
“You could say that. And I swear it’s not me,” Axel vowed. “Or when the picturesareof me, they’re blown way out of context. The sports networks have picked up on some of it, but there are a whole slew of non-sanctioned social media channels dedicated to behind the scenes NASCAR gossip. They may not be affiliated with the organization, but they’re not stopped. Fans flock to them because they look official. Then after the championship race, when the season is over, it’s like they all go nuts—more nuts than usual—because they don’t have anything else to talk about. That’s what my dad meant when he called itcrazy seasonthe other day. It happens ever year, just usually not to me.”
“So you’re being framed?”
I’d certainly seen that sort of thing happen to Hollywood celebrities and music personalities. No matter what certain people did, they were painted asTrouble. Some were targeted by the news, over and over, and made to look bad when they hadn’t done anything different than any other star their age might do. I’d never really thought it happened to sports figures, though.
He sighed, the sound long and full of frustration. “Seems like. All I know is, I’m not some bad boy acting out. Fuck, I practically adhere to a curfew. I go where I’m told to go, I smile, I mingle, I schmooze sponsors and fans, and then I go home. Alone. I promise, Brisk. Alone. There hasn’t been anyone else, not even as just a dinner date or a plus one to an event. I certainly haven’t taken groups of women to my hotel room for orgies.”
When I glanced over, he was staring at the cement walkway, his brows furrowed while his head shook the slightest bit.
“Have you had any tech guys look into it, authenticate the photos and the video? Have you asked your lawyer step in to demand proof and issue a cease and desist?”
“My uncle is supposed to be handling it.”
