She drove me mad. She knew how to do it. One look from those dark eyes, her soft face framed by a spill of curls. I was powerless.
When we were spent, I sank against her.
I curled her hair around my hand and kissed her ear. “Think … of me,” I said, gulping in air between words, “when you do it … alone. Me. My body. This.”
“I will. I will. I love you, Matt.”
I lifted myself enough to gaze down at her. I stripped off her nightie so that we could be naked together, and I pulled the covers over us. In a moment like that, it would have been easy to say Hannah was my sun—my whole life. But that was a feeling, and I know a feeling from a truth. The truth was that I loved Hannah, but I loved my writing more, and what I would do the following morning was the surest testament to that fact.
Faking my death. Separating us for months. Reclaiming my anonymity while Hannah played out our lie and bore the guilt alone.
That night, I had walked through our condo and brooded over the memories it held.
Our Christmas tree stood in the living room. We would spend Christmas apart. There was the deep-button sofa where we cuddled and watched movies, and our small kitchen crowded by an island and breakfast nook. I often sat there, staring at Hannah’s backside while she cooked.
Hannah filled that place. Hannah laughing, Hannah in my arms … every room, Hannah.
I had ached for her suddenly—a hot stab of sorrow that nearly doubled me over. What the fuck? I missed her, and she was only one room away.
God … I was having second thoughts.
I returned to bed and found Hannah still awake. She wiped her eyes on the sheets. I climbed over her, entangling our limbs and kissing her longingly.
“Brave bird,” I whispered as our lips parted. “Come with me. Please.”
I had made this case before, and a familiar look of fatigue came over Hannah’s face. It was my first idea—my best idea. Why die, after all, when I could escape the public with Hannah? We could drop off the grid together. The hope of it rose inside me again.
“Please,” I repeated. “Let’s go somewhere no one knows me. We can disappear; there’s no law against that. I’ll take care of you. I have enough money—we’d never need to work—and we wouldn’t have to leave this.” I emphasized my point by pressing my long, firm body against hers. She responded with a sigh. “This is my life. You’re my life, Hannah…”
“No, Matt.” Her fingers slid through my hair. “You know I’m not. You’ve got cold feet. We’ll get through this, but don’t—” She turned her head away, resting her cheek on our pillow. “Don’t ask me to leave my life. My job, my family…”
I tried to turn Hannah’s face toward me, but her neck stiffened.
She sniffled, and a bright tear rolled from her eye.
It broke my fucking heart.
Freezing wind whipped through the woods. Flecks of ice stung my cheek. I rose from that memory like a ghost.
Through the dark, I saw a light glowing in the cabin. I imagined Hannah was there, though I knew I’d left the light on for myself, and I hurried toward it.
Chapter 7
HANNAH
I stood shivering on the front steps of Nate’s house, waiting for the driving arrangements to be settled.
Valerie was inside giving last-minute instructions to the caterers.
Madison and Owen huddled close to me and I held their small hands. Madison was quiet, buried in a book, and Owen seemed cowed by the somber atmosphere.
“Are you warm enough?” I said. I squeezed his hand. He was adorable, a miniature Nate.
“It’s cold.” Owen kicked a clump of snow with his little boot. Then he lowered his voice and fixed me with his serious dark eyes. “I don’t like Uncle Seth,” he whispered.
I glanced toward the brothers. They were conferring at the end of the driveway. Nate gestured to the road. Seth shrugged. His posture said they were having an argument.
A pearly white Bentley was parked in front of the house. Seth’s car? Rich asshole …