I was terrified of who I’d allowed myself to become. Of who I was becoming. I was terrified of becoming hard and stern and rigid. I was terrified of letting life pass me by, of growing old alone, of not taking the opportunities for love that came my way.
And most of all, I was terrified that this guy, this wanderer, would see right through me. That he’d see me for who I really was—a girl pretending to be a woman—a child pretending to be a mother—an abandoned girl waiting her entire life for a lover who was never coming back.
I was lost and heartbroken, even after twelve years.
I’d never been able to get over what had happened all those years ago.
I wanted to have what I’d lost. I wanted the danger Jackson promised. I wanted the fun and vibrancy of my time with him. I wanted love and sex and Jackson’s big cock fucking me all night long.
Jackson.
That was it. How had I not realized? This guy, for some completely unknown reason, was reminding me of Jackson. It was ridiculous. This guy was nothing like Jackson. His voice was different. But that was why he pushed all my buttons. He was getting under my skin. He was having the same visceral effect on me Jackson had.
I pulled over and it was everything I could do to hold in my tears. It was embarrassing. I’d brought myself to the verge of crying just by thinking of Jackson. I almost felt unfaithful. I belonged to Jackson. I’d told myself I didn’t, on the tenth anniversary of our meeting I’d released myself from my pledge to him, but somehow my heart hadn’t received the message. I’d promised myself to Jackson Jones. He was the one I wanted.
This guy had no right getting into a car with me and reminding me of the feeling Jackson had given me.
I still hadn’t even seen his face and I never wanted to. I just wanted him to get out, to leave me alone. God, would I never get over Jackson? I was cursed. He’d been right all along. He’d told me, the very moment I first set eyes on him, that I’d regret ever meeting him. How was it possible that Jackson could be the very best thing, and the very worst thing, to ever happen to me?
“What’s wrong?” the man said. “Look. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Get out,” I said.
“This is my fault,” he said.
“Just get out of my car.”
“Look at my face,” he said.
But for some reason I couldn’t. It was dark, I’d been driving, I still hadn’t gotten a good look at him. But something inside me refused to look.
“Get out,” I said again, keeping my eyes glued to the steering wheel.
This man was a betrayal of everything I’d stood for. The feelings he brought to the surface were a betrayal of Jackson’s memory. Only one man had the right to push my buttons, and it wasn’t this guy.
He was still sitting there, next to me.
“Get out,” I said again, still resolutely refusing to look at him.
“All right,” he said. “I understand.”
He took something from his pocket, and for a second I was afraid it was going to be a weapon. It wasn’t. It was a trinket. A stupid trinket. A chain of some sort.
He hung it from the rearview mirror, a pendant of some sort dangling from it.
What was that supposed to be? A memento?
“I understand, Faith,” he said, and then, just like a ghost that appeared in the dead of night, he was gone.
I watched him walk off into the darkness, my headlights illuminating his back.
How had he known my name? I hadn’t told it to him.
He was getting farther away.
I grabbed the pendant from the rearview, hanging on a cheap, silver chain.
It didn’t look like much, a heart shaped pendant, and then, in a flash, it struck me. How had I been so blind? How had I refused to see what was right in front of me?
It was my pendant, my chain.
The one Jackson had snatched from my neck the very first time we met.
I sat there, quivering, and then I pulled into the road and fled.
Chapter 25
Jackson
WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME?
What the ever-loving-hell was wrong with me?
What was I afraid of?
Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I tell her who I was?
She’d know now. She’d see the chain and pendant and remember everything. It would all click. The filthy traveler she’d just kicked out of her car was Jackson Jones, the man she’d given a son to.
But what would she think? What would she feel?
One thing was certain. I was still in love with her. That hadn’t changed.
There was an electricity between us that was off the chart. My body yearned for her. It hadn’t forgotten what my heart and soul had decided long ago. That I was in love with Faith Shepherd.
She didn’t recognize me, or at least I didn’t think she did. Twelve years. I was a different man. I wasn’t the man who’d left her. I wasn’t the man she’d loved.