Page 90 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

But he’s faster than me. Just as soon as I open my mouth, he covers it with his hand, and shuts me up.

I get a lungful of the sweet scent of roses as he carries me to a dark alley between two buildings with me struggling in his hold, kicking my feet, trying to get free.

I don’t though. Not until we reach the far end of the alley, away from the commotion of the street, behind a fire escape.

He puts me down and spins me around, crowding me against the brick wall.

“What the fuck, asshole,” I practically scream in his face, pushing at his chest. “Let me go.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, simply keeps staring at me, his chest harshly breathing, his mouth parted, his hands firmly planted by my head on the wall. I lose my patience and push at him again. “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go .”

Nothing. Not one thing. No words. No change in his expression, except his intense stare that moves from one side of my face to another.

And I just… I smack him. I smack him in the jaw.

I smack him in his face. I think I even smack his chest. I’m raining down slaps on him as fast and as hard as I can and he’s letting me.

Until I get all tired and run out of breath.

Not that I stop but still my slaps don’t have the same force to them.

Which is when he takes charge.

He grabs my hands by the wrist and puts them up on the wall. I try to buck him off but he forces—literally forces —our fingers to thread together like we’re the greatest lovers that ever lived and curls his hands into fists, refusing to let go.

Still twisting between him and the wall, I snap, “What are you doing? Why aren’t you saying anything? What is?—”

He licks his lips then and rumbles, “Looking at you.”

His voice is scratchy and seems to be coming from somewhere deep in his chest and I clench my belly at the effect it has on me. “What?”

Still roving his eyes over my face, he says, “Haven’t looked at you in three days. That’s the…”

Despite myself, I ask, “That’s the what?”

His chest jerks with a breath. Then, “That’s the longest I haven’t looked at you ever since you spilled your drink on me at the club.”

“That’s not…”

Oh, yeah it is true. Even though we’ve been apart many times after that night, he has seen me almost every single day.

During those three weeks when I thought everything was over between us because he found out the truth about who I was, he still saw me working at the coffee shop.

Even when we were in the process of moving into his house and he would avoid me, he told me he would still go to the coffee shop to catch a glimpse of me from afar.

And ever since he left for the season, aside from those first two days where he was avoiding me, we’ve been Facetiming every single night.

My heart skips a beat in my chest at that, at his intense scrutiny but I try to be strong.

I try to block out the need in his eyes, the fact that he’s so large and sweet-smelling, all strawberries and musk.

I even try to block out how perfectly our hands fit each other like this, our palms joined, our fingers laced together like the fabric of our soul.

I wonder why we never made love like that, holding hands, as he moved inside of me.

That’s because we never made love. Or even if we did, it meant something else to him.

I take a deep breath and steel my spine even more. “That’s because you’re a crazy psycho who won’t leave me alone.”

He makes another round of my face with his dark, intense eyes before looking me in mine. Then, with a frankness I haven’t seen from him before, he rasps, “I am, yes.”

My heart pounds in my chest but I clench my teeth. “Were you stalking me?”

“No. Not really. I was walking over to your apartment when I saw you across the street. Decided to follow you.”

“That is stalking,” I inform him. Then, “How did you even find me?”

At this, his lips twitch and his finger flex against mine. “You made it hard for me, didn’t you. You did good, baby. You hid yourself well.”

“Don’t call me baby.”

He shakes his head, muttering, “Didn’t tell anyone where you were going.

Ditched your phone. No ping on your credit card either.

If it wasn’t for me going out of my fucking mind that I decided to give Isadora a try, it would’ve taken me fuck of a lot longer than three days to find you.

” Then, he mutters, “Actually, it was more Isadora taking pity on me to finally tell me where you went.”

See, I said I was being smart. Although, my smartness only extended to the point where I told Isadora about his friend who owned a security company and I was afraid he’d find me if he wanted to.

She did the rest. As in, come up with the plan to make my disappearance untraceable or rather difficult to pinpoint.

She got her driver to drive me all the way to New York City, gave me cash so I didn’t have to use my credit card.

I was desperate enough to borrow that money, which I’m going to pay back just as soon as I get back to Bardstown.

And of course, she called ahead to have the apartment ready for me.

Not to mention, my phone already had a tracking software.

So I left it in the hotel room. I told Snow I’d make sure to call her every day to check in even though I was leaving my phone behind.

By the way, this is why I was probably the last one to know about the leaked video.

I didn’t have my phone and no one had a way to contact me so I only got to know about it when I called Snow two days ago and then almost died with embarrassment because my little sister, my sweet and innocent Snow, was the one who told me about it.

She told me a bunch of other things but I ignore them like I’m ignoring everything else.

Anyway, for someone who hates secrets and hiding things, I was going gung-ho on the whole cloak and dagger stuff.

But whatever. Clearly though, I did not do a good enough job because he found me only three days later.

But that’s somehow not important even after all the lengths I went to, to hide myself.

What’s more important is this: “You talked to Isadora?”

He looks me in the eyes. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think you’d?—”

“I know,” he says. “Which is why you chose her.”

Again, my heart skips a beat at this. That he actually went and had a conversation with her when he refuses to even look at her. When he refuses to mention her name. When he still thinks he’s in love with her. All for me, all to find me.

Before I can steel myself again to ignore this little tidbit of information, he speaks, as if reading my thoughts. “I don’t.”

And he doesn’t have to explain what he means by that just as I don’t have to say things out loud to him. He’s my mind reader and somehow, I’m the reader of his heart. If only he listened to it rather than burying its voice deep inside of him.

I go to say I already know that. I already know he does not love her anymore. This is not new information to me. I was the one who told him that when he drops a bomb on me. “Realized it the night everyone found out about their engagement.”

“What?”

He licks his lips again as he says, never once looking away like he knows I deserve that courtesy from him, “I was shocked, yes and my head was all fucked up. But not because she got engaged to Stellan, the girl I thought I loved. But because he got to be with the girl he loved while I had to stay away from the girl I wanted.”

“The girl you wanted,” I repeat, my heart beating in my throat.

“You.”

“Me.”

He grips my hands even tighter as he confesses, “I knew if I got back home that night, I wouldn’t be able to stay away from you like you wanted me to.

So I drove around until I could get myself under control, get my need for you under control and only got back when I knew I’d be able to honor your wish. ”

Honor my wish. For no secrets, no sneaking around. No lying to the family. I remember that night. I couldn’t get any sleep either because I thought he was in pain, and I thought I should break my promise to myself and soothe it.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” I ask even though I think I already know the answer. “Why did you let me believe you still loved her?”

He swallows. “Because I didn’t want to give you any excuse to run.”

I should be angry at him. So fucking angry for lying.

So fucking angry for hiding things, for doing twisted things to keep me from running.

But all I want to do is cry. All I want to do is break down in tears because can’t he see?

Can’t he see he loves me? He loves me so much and just because he’s so stubborn, so hardheaded he won’t admit to that.

He won’t admit to his feelings and will keep hurting me. Hurting himself.

I swallow too, getting ready to send him away. If this is what he came here to tell me along with his pretty purple flowers, my answer is again, no, thank you. I don’t want to be with him. I don’t want anything to do with him.

But once again, he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything or even erect my walls and says, his voice rough and deep, “I was jealous. I have been jealous. Of my siblings.”

At this, I pause. I give him my full attention, despite knowing it’s not advisable.

If I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.

But I wasn’t expecting him to say that, to admit to it.

I wasn’t expecting him to be blunt about it either, both in his words and in the way he’s looking at me.

Like even though these aren’t really nice things to say but he can’t be embarrassed about them because they’re true.