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Taylor

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Why did you choose to treat burn victims?"

"Because I like challenges, mostly."

"Any other man would try to glorify himself by saying his choice was about kindness and the need to help others."

"With or without your memory, you’ve been around me long enough to know I’m not a good man, Taylor. I’m selfish, arrogant, and . . .”

"Vindictive?"

"I don’t forget offenses or betrayals."

"But if what we had was casual, then I didn’t betray you. It’s not just arrogance, William. You see things the way you want to see them."

"You were . . .special to me."

I feel my heart slam against my ribcage. I never imagined he would say that. "So it wasn’t just sex?"

"Have you ever looked in the mirror?"

"The mirror shows the surface—not necessarily who I am, William."

The car stops at a red light, and he turns to me. "Do you really want to go to a restaurant?"

"I’d eat anything, really. But if we go to your house, I know how it’ll end. You said it yourself—we can’t be near each other without ending up naked."

"That’s an excellent argument."

"I have nothing against being naked with you. I do have a problem with feeling used afterwards."

"I never used you, Taylor."

I stare at him, unconvinced, but then I realize—he’s serious. "Thank you for that."

"For telling the truth?"

"For not using me. If I loved you, it would have broken my heart to think I was just another body to you."

He clears his throat, as if the topic makes him uncomfortable. "You were twenty-three. You didn’t know what love was."

"How old are you?"

"Forty."

"You said that at twenty-three, I didn’t know. At forty, can you say you know what love is, William?"

The driver pulls up in front of a beautiful restaurant, saving him from having to answer.

He steps out first and offers his hand to help me.

"We’ve done this before."

"Yes, the night I met you at the concert."

I stop in front of him, and suddenly, it’s like I’ve been transported to the past—as if, at this moment, we are the only two people in the world. "Only once?"

"There wasn’t time for more."

"Would there have been?"

"I don’t live my life based on hypotheticals, Taylor. I deal in certainties—then I make plans."

The magic shatters.

"Of course not. A man like you has to deal in certainties, which makes me wonder—how can you be so certain about my betrayal? As you pointed out, you weren’t there with us."

I see his jaw tighten, and I immediately regret exposing myself. He can think whatever the hell he wants about me.

William places a hand on the small of my back and leads me into the restaurant.

I wait for the hostess to show us to our table, noticing how a few heads turn to look at him as he passes.

Once we’re seated, I ask, "You said you base your life on certainties, then plans. What are your plans for the future?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "If you’re pregnant, I’m marrying you."

If you’re pregnant.

Just to make sure I don’t run off with his child, most likely.

I feel like I’m suffocating, my heart crushed under the weight of realization.

I’ve been lying to myself.

I wasn’t in love with William.

I still am.

And to him—even back then—I was only special.

"I want to make a deal," I say, knowing that what I’m about to propose might seal my fate forever.

"What kind of deal?"

I see the suspicion in every syllable of his question. "If I’m carrying your child, I’ll marry you. But if I’m not, you’ll never look for me again. As you said, the attraction between us is impossible to control, but we don’t like or trust each other. I need to move on."

His icy blue-gray eyes lock onto mine like darts. I can practically hear the gears in his head turning, and I don’t understand why it’s so hard for him to agree. There are plenty of women more than willing to satisfy his need for sex.

His phone rings. With a slight hand gesture, he excuses himself to check the caller ID. But when he looks at the screen, his face twists into pure hatred. "What do you want, Dad?"

My blood turns to ice. I stare at him, anxious. If there was any chance we might come to an understanding today, it just died.

I don’t pay attention to the conversation, but when I hear my name, my pulse skyrockets.

"Taylor is with me. You’ll never go near her again."

At first, I feel nervous.

But then—anger flares.

Who the hell do these two think they are, fighting over me like I’m property?

"I want to talk to him," I say.

He glares at me, then reluctantly hands me the phone.

"Mr. Marshall, it’s Taylor. I thought I made it very clear when I ran away from your yacht that I never wanted to have any contact with you again—not even as a friend. You kept me trapped for over a year, pretending to care for me. You used my memory loss to lie—to tell me we were lovers, that we were about to get married. But we both know that was a lie, don’t we? I never let you touch me. I could barely stand having you near me—even as a so-called protector. I will never forgive you for isolating me for so long. Don’t ever come near me again. Not because I belong to someone else—no one owns me. But because if you do, I will go to the police. I know the law. What you did to me is called unlawful imprisonment."