Page 77 of Crossed

“You didn’t meanwhat, petite pécheresse? Didn’t mean to throw baseless accusations at a man you know nothing about?” The hairs rise on the back of my neck.

“They’re not baseless,” I murmur, because…who thefuckknows why? Clearly, I have a knack for self- sabotage. I’m egging him on, but I can’t stop myself, wanting to see how far I can push him. At least if he’s angry again, he won’t want to know about my mom.

His arms come up on either side of my head, the veins in his forearms flexing, and because of the way my hair is fanned out behind me, when he presses down with his palms, it tugs on the strands. I bite back a moan at the sharp stab of pain, and I realize with a sickening realization that even when he scares me, he turns me on.

His breath hits my neck. An inch closer and we’d be flush together.

“How can anyone blame me?” he rasps. “Iama man of God, mon trésor, but I am still just a man.”

My heart pounds in my chest, my lungs squeezing until my breathing comes in sharp, short pants.

And I wait. Wait for him to touch me. Kiss me. Hurt me.

Something.

Only it never comes.

Instead, he moves back and sits on the opposite end of the couch, brushing his hand down the front of his shirt like he wasn’t just seconds away from ruining my life.

“So we’re back to it being my fault then?” I push myself up to sit. “I didn’t force you to come to my window at night, Cade. In fact, I should be running for the hills because you do.”

“We’ve both made mistakes.” He shakes his head. “And we’ve both done things we shouldn’t have.”

“What a cop- out answer,” I scoff.

He shoots me a disapproving glare. “I think we need a fresh start, no? Perhaps…friends.”

My immediate reaction is to argue, because he has me on edge, and becauseno, I don’t want to be his friend. I’m not sure I can be. But the longer I let it ruminate, the more it makes sense.

It’s like he said…we’re impossible. Whateverthisis will bring nothing but pain.

Friends.

“Okay,” I agree. “Friends.”

He smiles, his body relaxing into the couch cushion. “So,friend, tell me about your mother.”

Sighing, I lean back. I’m too tired to keep fighting and, if I’m honest, too afraid that if I stoke my anger, it will turn into something else. Something that makes me feel and blurs the line from this brand- new boundary we’re setting.

“You first,” I reply.

There’s nothing I want to do less than talk about my mom, but Idowant to know about him. If I could, I’d dig inside his brain and carve myself out a little hole where I could live while I flip through all his memories.

He runs his hand through his inky black hair, his masculine hands flexing with the movement.

I bite the inside of my lip to keep from reacting the way I want to.

Friends.

“I never met my mom.”

I frown. “And your dad?”

“The closest I’ve ever had to family is a nun named Sister Agnes who would rather have had me die from one of her beatings than take up space in her orphanage.”

He says it so nonchalantly, like he’s telling me about the weather, but I recognize the hurt in his voice the same way I feel it in my own. And because of that, empathy hits me square in the chest. I know what it’s like to feel unwanted. Like you’re a plague to the person who’s supposed to care.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to say that,” I jest, trying to get a smile.