“Nine o’clock tomorrow?”
“See you then.” I forced a smile, inwardly cringing at the idea of enduring another day of pretending. Of putting on an act. Of being someone I wasn’t.
Then I headed up the walkway and into the quiet house.
Feet screaming for relief, I stepped out of my heels and dropped my things in the entryway before proceeding into the kitchen. I stopped when my eyes fell on the hummingbird cake on the island, two slices missing.
My stomach clenched, an ache filling my heart at the memory of Lachlan. Of how understanding he was. How he cheerfully agreed to bake a cake with me, since baking was always my happy place. How, over the course of our time in the kitchen, all my nerves about having sex for the first time in seven years evaporated to the point that I felt comfortable enough to give him exactly what he wanted.
But none of it was real. It was all an act, a ruse.
I grabbed the bottle of red wine off the counter, poured a healthy amount into a nearby glass, and made my way toward the lanai, hoping some fresh air and good wine would give me the clarity about what I was going to say to Lachlan when I saw him.
If I should even bother.
Disappearing sounded more and more appealing with every second.
But as I opened the door, I came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the man sitting on the wicker couch, shoulders hunched, forearms resting on his knees. His expression was pained, turmoil covering every inch of him.
He didn’t look like the same confident, debonair man who left me this morning.
He looked…shattered.
I had to fight the urge to go to him, wrap him in my arms, give him the comfort he so easily provided me last night. Hell, since our first meeting.
But I couldn’t do that. Refused to do that. I’d learned my lesson with Nick. I vowed to never subject myself to any more mind games. Any more traps. And that was probably all this was. Simply a trap. One I wouldn’t fall for again.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice hard.
He snapped his head up, eyes glassy and tinged with red. It appeared as if he’d been…crying? Or at least struggling to hold in his emotions. But why?
Then I noticed his phone on the coffee table in front of him. When I saw the photo on the screen, I wavered, my legs almost giving out beneath me as I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
I’d hoped to never see that photo again, a near impossibility considering it was one all the news sites displayed when reporting on Nick’s crimes. They always used a photo of Nick in his tweed jacket, tie, and dark-rimmed glasses, exuding the intellectual he was. But the one they used for me was snapped after I fought to finally free myself from his control. My face was pale, apart from the bruises on my cheek, eye, and jaw, my lips swollen and bloody, hair disheveled.
I wished I could erase that woman from my memory. Wished I could just move on from my past, instead of constantly be reminded of it, no matter how hard I tried.
I just wanted to be free.
I doubted I ever would be.
“Is this you?” Lachlan asked in a shaky voice, jaw tight, muscles strained.
Summoning all the strength I possessed, I held my head high when all I really wanted to do was curl into a ball and disappear at the memory that image evoked.
“I don’t know—”
“Answer me!” he bellowed, shooting to his feet and advancing.
I instinctively backed up, fear snaking through me. The shock caused me to loosen my grip on the wine glass. It crashed to the ground, glass shattering, wine staining the pavement a dark red color, reminiscent of the blood that had stained the cement when I made my final stand against Nick.
Lachlan immediately stiffened, lips parting, regret pooling in his azure eyes as they skated over me in concern.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He hung his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just…” Pulling his lips between his teeth, he returned his gaze to mine. “I need to know.” His chin quivered. “Is the woman in the photo you? Please,” he begged.
I studied him for a beat. His anguish seemed…authentic. I wanted to believe it was real.
But experience had taught me to always be skeptical. To always second-guess anyone’s motives, even if my gut told me he wasn’t faking this. The emotion in his eyes was too raw. Too cutting. Too deep. I felt it in my bones.