Page 92 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

LINCOLN

He sat on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table as he strummed lazily on his guitar.

The early morning light illuminated those rich green eyes of his as he watched me as I read.

I tried to focus on my book, but I couldn’t.

Stolen glances quickly turned into a distraction I couldn’t deny.

“What’re you staring at, Lucky?” I asked as I braced my open book over my knee and gave him my attention.

“Is that the one with the tentacles?” he replied.

“I don’t read—”

“You did!” Nash interrupted with a laugh. “I found the art.”

“Jesus fuck,” I groaned. My ears burned hot. “It was a gift.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow. “You sure about that, baby? The spine’s worn. That only happens—”

“It was a gift!” I exclaimed over him, making him laugh harder. That sound wrapped around me like a warm blanket I never wanted to come out from under. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Mmm, probably not.”

“I hate you,” I muttered.

“You love me,” he replied.

“I do.” I smiled because I did love him. This weird little arrangement of ours had turned into the best damn thing of my life. Sure, he made fun of me for my books, but he played me music while I read. There wasn’t—

The blaring of my alarm dragged me out of sleep and stole the dream away.

I let out a sound of frustration as I grabbed the alarm clock, ripping it out of the outlet and chucking it across the room.

It hit the mirror, breaking it on impact.

Glass scattered across my dresser and covered the folded flag sitting there.

“Fuck!” I yelled. I scrubbed my hands over my face as the familiar burn built in my nose.

I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to hide in a dream where Nash was still mine with his lazy music and snarky commentary. Instead, I was stuck here alone with a folded flag that couldn’t love me the way he did.