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Slowly, I lift my chin and time stands still.
At first, it’s ghostlike. Then, it’s like a whisper. On the third pass of my lips, Davis’s lips brush over mine, too. Soft. Tentative. Uncertain.
I reach up, lightly running my fingertips over the cool metal of his wedding band. Then I splay my palm over his bare chest where his heart beats erratically. The feeling of it reminds me of better days. Of comfort.
I should stop. But I can’t. The emotions between us are just too thick.
And I’m not always a good listener when it comes to common sense. When it comes to Davis Westbrook.
His big, warm hand covers mine. As if he’s telling me to not let go. “Alana…” he whispers against my mouth, nothing but pain in the sound.
But I don’t want to feel his pain. I don’t want to feel mine. I don’t want to feel the regret or the remorse or the reasons I was forced to walk away. I just want to feelhim.
The man I fell in love with when I was so young I didn’t know what lovereallymeant. Before I knew love meant heartbreak and sacrifice and hurt.
I press my mouth firmly against his, wordlessly telling him that I’m sure about this. That whatever it is we’re doing here, right now, half naked in this waterfall, I’m in. I’m all the way in.
His strong arms come tightly around me and he starts kissing me back.
A moan travels up my throat as I melt into the familiarity of his embrace. Of his scent. Of his taste. Of the weight of his lips against mine.This feels so good, I could burst into tears.
His lips part, and I amsoready to deepen this kiss. I’m ready for him to thrust his tongue into my mouth and kiss me like I’m the only woman he’s ever needed.
But instead of his tongue, there’s suddenly nothing at all.
“We’re divorced, Allie.” Davis pulls back, shaking his head as though he just snapped out of a trance.
My breath gets stuck in my throat.
He releases my waist. He takes a hurried step backward. Then another. He slips and catches his balance. He takes another step back. Placing more than enough distance between us.
I watch as he turns his back and trudges through the water, leaving me all alone in the pond. He climbs out and stomps away.
On the inside, everything freezes over. All the cold I’d forgotten comes back threefold. Ashamed and confused, I scramble out of the water, too.
It takes me several tries to pull myself out. So, on top of my confusion, I’m shivering and embarrassed. I dart over to the tree to find my filthy clothes and hurriedly slip my wet shirt over my body. Despite the fact that this man has seen me naked thousands of times, I’m feeling ridiculously self-conscious at the moment.
I hear Davis rustling loudly behind me, roughly and angrily yanking on his shirt. I sneak a peek over my back and catch him glaring in my direction.
“All of this…” he growls, motioning to the empty space between us. “...is fucking with my head, Alana. It’s not fucking fair and it needs to stop!”
I snort. It’s the most unladylike sound ever. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m not struggling, too? Being this close to you and knowing I can’t touch you the way I used to. That you don’t belong to me. It really sucks, Davis. It’s hard.”
He laughs bitterly as he bends over to yank on his muddy, worn-out boots. “Are you kidding me?” There’s so much venom in his words. “Alana—youbroke up withme. You filed for the divorce. You had all the power. I didn’t have a say in any of this. And the worst part is, you weren’t even honest with me about why you left. You don’t get to be the hurt one here.”
He straightens up, shaking out his dirty hands. As he does, he accidentally flings a big clump of mud my way. He watches as it lands on my bare shin, sticks to my skin for a moment, and then slides off.
I gasp, blinking in anger. “Did…did you just fling mud at me?”
For half a second, it looks like he’s about to apologize. But then his brows lower over narrowed eyes. “Yeah. I did,” he says challengingly. He takes a daring step closer and flicks another little clump of mud at my dirty, wet shirt. This time it lands on my boob. “Now what?”
What the hell is his problem? Affronted, I bend down and scoop up a handful of gooey, cold mud.
I chuck it at his chest. “Yeah. Sorry I wasn’t perfect, Davis,” I bite.
“You didn’t need to be perfect! You just needed to fucking communicate!” He splatters more mud at me. “Irreconcilable differences—are you fucking kidding me, Alana?!”
I’m fuming. “Well, sometimes it’s impossible to communicate with someone who’s so freaking perfect all the time! Mr. Can Do No Wrong,” I yell. “Mr. Never Got A Taste Of How Fucked Up Life Can Be.”
