Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to walk me home.”
My coat drops a few inches, following his wide shoulders. “Yeah, I do, Camryn,” he says seriously, gazing around the bar to the few single businessmen. Just as I did. Leaning back on my stool, I suddenly understand what he’s saying but not saying as he keeps my coat up.
It’s beyond me why I do, but I stand and turn, feeding my arms through the sleeves, freezing when I feel his front meet my back, his arms reaching between mine for the belt of my coat. I look down at him tying it. Then he turns me and wraps my scarf around my neck, his face so close again as he concentrates on getting each end even. I stare at him. Just stare.
Mesmerised.
Confused by this. By him. By this whole thing that’s going on.
Dec slips some cash onto the bar and swings his coat on as I get my bag, then holds his hand out to me. I hesitate. “Take it,” he orders softly. I want to take it. I want to feel the warmth and strength of his hold around my hand. But, again, what is this?
Unable to answer, I tentatively accept and gulp down the endless, annoying questions. I don’t have a moment to admire the sight of my hand being held before he’s leading me out of the bar.
Dec doesn’t let go the entire way back to my apartment, and I’m in utter awe of the strength pouring into me through our held hands. As we round the corner onto my street, he looks up to the dark sky, breathing in deeply. “Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He slows to a stop and directs me to in front of him, releasing my hand. I mourn the loss. Then we go through what’s becoming so familiar and comforting, a dance of gazes drifting back and forth between our eyes and mouths. Does he want to kiss me as desperately as I want to kiss him? And why hasn’t he? Why haven’t I?
Because it might change this.
“Goodnight, Camryn,” he says, reaching for my face and cupping my cheek, gently holding me.
I automatically nuzzle into it. “Goodnight.”
The second he breaks contact, reversing his steps, I want to scream at him to come back. Hold me again, even if it’s just my hand or my cheek. But he turns away before I have the chance.
Or can make that mistake.
I watch him until he disappears around the corner before I take myself inside. Closing the door behind me, I listen to the sound of silence for a few moments before flicking the lights on and tossing my keys on the table by the door. Wandering into the kitchen, I home in on the sound of the fridge whirring and drop my bag on the table. What the hell was I thinking letting him convince me to come home at this hour? Why the hell didn’t I bring any files home? Why on earth haven’t I slept with him yet?
Knock, knock, knock.
My body tenses, my gaze darting to the kitchen doorway. He’s back.
Heat pounding, my mouth dry with anticipation, I walk faster than I would ever admit to the door and swing it open.
Coming face to face with someone I never want to see again.
“Camryn.” My husband carries indifference so well these days. Did I ever know him? He walks past me without an invitation to enter and, as he has done on the handful of other times he’s tracked me down to my apartment, stops and takes in the soulless space. But this time he doesn’t pass comment on it. He pushes his jacket back and slips his hands into his pockets, facing me. Takes me in, up and down. I’d ask what he wants, but that would be a stupid question.
“You can leave,” I say, keeping the door open for him.
“Not until you’ve signed the papers.” He stalks into the kitchen, and I follow, finding him rummaging through my handbag.
“They’re not in there,” I say, folding my arms and resting my shoulder on the doorframe, fighting to keep the monster inside buried.
“Just sign the damn papers, Cam.”
I bite down on my back teeth. “And agree to unreasonable behaviour?” No, I don’t think so.
“You don’t think you were unreasonable?” he asks, his surprise maddening, as he starts opening empty cupboards and drawers, searching. “I still can’t believe you’ve not unpacked your fucking things.”
“Get out,” I grate.
He huffs and passes me, forcing my back to the door to avoid touching him. Do not touch him. I don’t know how you can love someone and hate them at the same time. But I do. I love him. I love what we had, what we were. And now I hate him for destroying it all. Destroying me.
But I hate myself more.
He finds what he’s looking for on the footstool and flicks through, looking for my signature, and exhales his exasperation when he doesn’t find it, dropping them again, raking a hand through his hair. “Why are you dragging this out, Cam?”