Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
"No one ever said anything."
"You haven't exactly been here."
I have no defense for that, so I just grunt.
Tryst doesn't say anything as Huck brings his beer over, sliding it across the bar to him. Once my cousin has it in hand, he turns back to me. "Maybe we figured we should stay out of it."
"Miracles never cease," I say, deadpan.
He discreetly flips me off before sobering. "So you're still hung up on her, huh?"
"Looks like it."
"So why are you over here, drinking alone?"
"You miss the part where I asked you about wanting something you shouldn't? She's already got a man." I snort. "Had one the same goddamn day she walked away without a goodbye."
Trystan pauses with his beer halfway to his lips, his eyes wide. "Is that what you think happened?"
"What I think happened?" My brows furrow. "That is what happened."
"You sure about that?"
"Motherfucker, I was there. It happened." I showed up at her dorm, ready to soothe whatever fears sent her running, only to find her hanging all over some motherfucker right out front. I realized pretty quickly that it wasn't fear that sent her running. It was her man back at school.
It took everything I had not to get out of the truck and wrap my hands around his throat. I wanted to do it so fucking badly I actually envisioned it happening. Me, with my hands around his throat. His face turning purple and then blue. Paisley, screaming and crying for me to stop because she loves him.
Three years later, that shit still fucks me up a little.
Tryst takes a slow swallow, eyeing me over the top of his bottle. He doesn't say anything, but the way he's looking at me…
"What?"
"Maybe shit isn't always what it looks like, man," he says quietly.
"Right." I tip my bottle back, draining it. "Well, hate to break it to you, but there aren't many goddamn ways to interpret my girl all hugged up with a motherfucker who wasn't me."
"You need to talk to her."
"No thanks." I haul myself to my feet with a shake of my head. "Some shit is better left in the past."
Unfortunately for me, I just can't figure out how to leave it there. She isn't mine and never was. But seeing her again has me realizing that I'm still fucking hers, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
Chapter Two
Paisley
"What is his problem?" I mutter, my eyes trained on Ridley as he spots me walking toward him down the path that runs the length of the vineyard, and immediately mutters what looks like a curse. The scowl on his face says everything.
He hates me. I'm just not entirely sure why. If anyone should be pissed here, it's me. He's the one who left the freaking country while I was still asleep in his bed!
Funny how that hasn't stopped me from thinking about him incessantly over the last three years. No matter how many times I try to tell myself that I'm not going to be that girl—that sad, obsessive girl who can't move on—I've been her all along.
Ridley Goodson broke my heart and my stupid brain. A week later, my whole life detonated.
Three years later, the proof of just how deep those fissures still run is staring me in the face. He's back…and seeing him hurts like hell.
Unfortunately for me, in the forty-eight hours I've been here, I've seen him everywhere. It's like he's making a game of being exactly where I plan to be. Dinner with Lucy? He's at the bar. A walk around the vineyard? He's working in the field. Lunch in town? Guess who strolls his fine ass through the door?
The man is haunting me, and he didn't even have the decency to drop dead first. Rude.
I briefly consider turning around and going the opposite direction, but that scowl on his gorgeous face changes my mind. I didn't do anything wrong. If anyone should run here, it should be him.
I've had three years of pain and heartbreak to forge armor. And what life and loss turned to steel, law school tempered. He can't hurt me now unless I let him, and there's not a chance in hell I'll be letting him. Been there, done that, will not be repeating that mistake.
I lift my chin, shove my hands into my pockets, and keep walking. It feels like I'm wading into battle. The man helps run a vineyard, and he's more intimidating than opposing counsel could ever hope to be.
His scowl slips, dark amusement curving his lips at the corners as he stops directly in the center of the path. Why can't he be normal instead of a giant pain in my ass?
And why does he have to look so damn good? It's really unfair. Life and law school added twenty pounds to my already curvy frame, and Italy added about the same amount of muscle to his. He's even bigger, even more ridiculously sexy, and somehow that smile is just as devilish as it was back then.