He stalks to me, and I’m struck again by his massive height, his broad shoulders, the way his shirt stretches over his muscles. He crosses his arms to match mine. We’re two feet apart, and the air wafts with the scent of his cologne.
I chew on my bottom lip, and he notices, his eyes landing there and staying. Two spots of color flare on his cheekbones, and he darts his gaze to a point over my shoulder.
Here goes nothing. A long exhale leaves my chest. “Graham, I’m truly sorry for the mess I made. Taking your car was inexcusable and wrong and impulsive. Extremely stupid. I’m old enough to know better. I’ve regretted it every day since it happened. I’ve had massive guilt over it. I am so sorry. So sorry. I can’t say it enough. You have every right to be angry.”
He grunts, unmoved.
Several moments pass, and I nod nervously, tension escalating when he doesn’t reply.
“If it matters, I wasn’t pretending in Arizona. I didn’t know who you were. I imagine a man in your position, you’re used to being recognized, but I was clueless. I missed it. My head was . . . all over the place at the motel.”
“Your boyfriend is a player.”
“My ex. He didn’t play while we were together, and I don’t follow sports. And how do you know?”
“Kian was waiting for you at the motel.” Steely eyes narrow. “I can’t see you with him. You . . . don’t . . . fit.”
He pauses between those last words, making it somehow more meaningful. I don’t know if it’s the cadence of how he speaks when he’s emotional or if he’s underlining that he knows what happened between me and Kian. My breath hitches. Of course—he saw my neck at the motel. Touching my throat, I drop my gaze to the ground as my insides twist. I’m deeply embarrassed about having been at Kian’s mercy in Vegas. And the truth is that I was at his mercy in Old Town, because I didn’t stay and face him. I ran instead.
“If you hadn’t stolen my car, I might have had time to beat the shit out of him.”
I glance up in surprise.
His eyes blaze with anger, not at me, but at Kian.
“I’m still angry with you, though,” he mutters. “I’d had that car for two weeks. It was a Lamborghini Aventador.”
I cringe. “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds really expensive.”
“Yes,” he says grimly. “It was.”
“How much?”
“Over four hundred.”
“Thousand?” Nausea bubbles, and I put a hand to my stomach.
“Yes.”
Oh my God. I can’t even . . .
I might pass out. I lean against the brick of the boutique and cover my face with my hands in horror for a few moments, then drop them. “Why would you spend that kind of money on a car?”
He cocks his head. “Really? That’s what you want to say after stealing it? You drove it. It has 740 horsepower, goes from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, with a speed up to 220 miles per hour. It’s fucking beautiful.”
“Where on earth would you drive that fast?”
“The desert. Until it was taken. By you.”
Right. “I just wanted to borrow it. You weren’t in your room when I knocked, but you’d left your key, and then my mind went off kilter, and I was convinced Kian would talk me into going back to Vegas. I needed to get away from him as fast as possible. In hindsight, I could have run to the diner or hidden in the desert, but then I’m really scared of scorpions and wolves. I should have just faced him.”
“Why did you run away from him?”
I inhale a deep breath, debating my next words. “To give you some background, my parents had a very turbulent relationship. My dad drank, used drugs, couldn’t hold a job. He hurt my mom.” I glance away from him, my head swirling with memories of my mom with black eyes, a broken arm, ribs. She’d eventually forgive him; then they’d have this honeymoon phase, with flowers and candy and vacations. “As a kid, watching the abuse happen in front of you, it changes you and never leaves. When they’d fight, I always ran and hid. And I guess that’s what I did in Vegas.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
I nod as my throat prickles with emotions. Images flash through my head of my father dragging my mother across the floor by her hair that last night. I hear her sobs, begging him to stop. Jane was only three, and Andrew was two. I pulled them into the hall closet and watched through a crack in the door as it unfolded.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“When I was ten years old . . .” My words trail off.
“Yes?”
I feel color rising in my cheeks, and I put my hands there to cool them off.
It’s okay.
I’m not there.
I’m here.
I’m fine.
I’m good.
I’m a fighter. A survivor.
“What happened?” he asks, his brows lowering.
A tangled knot builds in my chest, then releases. “My mom shot him.” I say the words woodenly, keeping emotion bottled up inside. “She was beaten down, broken, and afraid for her life.”
His mouth parts. “What?”
I nod. “She was charged with manslaughter but was acquitted.” Gran hired the best lawyers, researchers, and psychologists to help Bryony, my mom. Gran brought in advocates of domestic abuse, organized marches, and did radio shows and podcasts. The truth is many domestic abuse women end up serving long sentences for protecting themselves against their abuser, and Gran didn’t want that to happen for my mom.
“And now? Your mom?”
“She moved to Costa Rica.” She didn’t even come to Gran’s funeral. The only communication I have with her is via text, and that is rare. I haven’t seen her since I was ten years old.
Part of me understands that she left to cope with her own trauma. She felt the sting of his fists, and perhaps she even kept him from hitting us, but the other side of me feels abandoned by the person who was supposed to always protect me.
Pushing those memories away, I raise my face to his. “I told you this deeply private thing because when Kian hurt me, it reminded me of my childhood. I just wanted to run. It’s not an excuse, just an explanation.”
He studies me intently, his gaze lingering over each feature as if he is trying to see into my soul. I have to glance away.
“I swear I parked it at the airport and left your keys on the tire—”
“And someone saw you and stole it.”
I gasp. “What? No.”
“It’s on a surveillance camera. A man was in the garage when you pulled in. He grabbed the keys and took the car for a joyride and wrecked it. No clue who he is. Which brings us to you. You’re responsible. You stole my car first.”
I grimace, picturing the scene in my head, me getting out of the car, stashing his keys, then darting for the elevator to get to ticketing in the airport so I could leave Arizona. I wasn’t paying attention if anyone else was around me.
“So you’ve confronted me. Do I need to pay for damages?” The mere idea of more debt makes me want to drop to my knees and weep.
“You have that kind of money?”
“No. Do I need to turn myself in? Be handcuffed? Get fingerprinted?”
“About that. I have”—he looks away, his hands flexing—“a proposal.”
If he says he wants some kind of sex thing, I’m going to freak. “I’m listening.”
“I’m in need of a wife.”