“We don’t need to hide it, Liv.”
“There is no it.”
There’s a flash of pain on his face, and the part of me that used to be best friends with this guy wants to hug the hurt away. But we’re not friends anymore. And the last hug that we shared…I can’t even go there. Not with a hundred people downstairs.
“You need to get out of here,” I say.
“So that’s how it’s going to be? I’m the one that gets kicked out of the group? I get to be the bad guy?”
I want to shout at him that he is the bad guy. I want to blame it all on him. But deep down, I know I can’t.
“I just don’t want to be in the same bedroom as you,” I say through gritted teeth. “That didn’t work out so well for us last time.”
Michael moves even closer, leaning in so his face is just inches from mine. “Yeah? Seems to me that it worked out really well last time.”
I close my eyes to push away the mental image, and when that doesn’t succeed, I reach out and literally push him away. His nearness brings back the very memories that are driving me to my self-imposed exile in the first place.
My push is only strong enough to rock him back on his heels, and his eyes search my face before his features go closed and hard.
He begins to walk away, his expression full of disgust. “I know what this bullshit Maine excursion is really about, Olivia. It won’t give you what you’re looking for.”
My stomach clenches. “You don’t know anything,” I say.
“You’re looking for forgiveness,” he says, turning back in the doorway. “So am I. But it’s not in Bar Harbor, Maine. You’ll come find me when you realize that.”
Our gazes hold for several more seconds, and for a moment I think it might be longing that I feel, but deep down I know it’s only regret. I’ll never be able to give him what he thinks he wants.
But whether or not we’re right for each other, Michael does know me. He knows that the reason I’m fleeing New York has nothing to do with the goodness of my heart and everything to do with the wretchedness of it.
Caring for a war veteran isn’t about philanthropy.
It’s about penance.
Chapter Two
Paul
Those who think 11:14 A.M. is too early in the day to start drinking haven’t met my father.
Hell, those who think any time of day is too early to start drinking haven’t met me.
“Adding alcoholic to our résumé, are we?” Dad asks, glaring at the tumbler of bourbon in my hand with disdain.
I rattle the ice in my glass at him without bothering to move from my slumped position in the leather club chair. It’s an effort, making my body go all careless and don’t-give-a-shit, but I’ve learned it’s a necessity around my father. If he sees the real me—the version of me that’s always thirty seconds away from punching something—he’ll have me locked up. “Relax,” I sneer. “At least there’s an ice cube in there. When I start drinking it neat, then we’ll have a problem.”
My father’s stony expression doesn’t waver. Why would it? It’s been locked in the state of disapproving since the day I told him I was enlisting in the Marines instead of becoming his lackey at the company.
If you’d rather get sand up your ass and your damned head blown off than accept your responsibilities, go right ahead, but don’t expect me to give your cold body a hero’s welcome when it gets shipped home in a wooden box.
Ah, that’s my dad. Always one step away from begging me to toss a baseball around or go fishing together. When he’s not telling me to follow my dreams, of course.
It gives me a modicum of satisfaction to know that he was only half right. The sand up my ass definitely happened. But I didn’t get my head blown off.
It was my leg.