Page 15 of Deception & Daylight (Oak Ridge #3)
“You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m here if you ever need to talk.
I’ve had 53 years on this earth, Maggie, and I know, more than most, of the cruelty and the destruction humanity has to offer.
I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. And more than that, I do not wish it on a kind soul like you.
I am sorry for whatever happened to you, sweet girl.
I wish I could take away that pain. But please don’t lock it away inside yourself and let it snuff out your light.
We all grieve in our own ways, for things we lose, and things that are taken from us by force.
It’s how we come back to ourselves that truly defines who we are, not the act that brought us to the very depths of hell in the first place. ”
Each word is a balm to my tattered soul as their meaning sinks into the very marrow of my bones.
Without another word, Lucy squeezes my hand, leans over to kiss my forehead, then gracefully strides from the room, leaving me replaying her words over and over in my head until they become essential to my survival.
It’s how we come back to ourselves that truly defines who we are, not the act that brought us to the very depths of hell in the first place.
Miles
My phone vibrates in my back pocket as I’m rolling up the newest set of blueprints for the office remodel we’re working on. Picking it up, I see mom’s name flashing across the screen and I quickly tap accept.
“Hey Ma.”
“Miles.” The way she speaks my name has me jerking to a stop, immediately on edge. “I need you to come by the inn.”
“What happened?” I try to keep my voice steady, but worry is seeping in. I’m already moving towards my truck while silently signaling Luca, letting him know I’m needed elsewhere, and he waves me off without a second thought.
“I was fluffing the pillows in the sitting room while Maggie was out on the porch. I heard a crash, and I ran out as fast as I could. When I got there, she was having a panic attack.”
Fuck.
Worry prickles at the back of my neck. “I’m on my way.” An image of her crumpling, tears in her eyes, flashes in my mind, fueling my desperation.
What would normally be a ten-minute drive only takes me five as I barrel down the familiar winding streets towards the inn. My mind is swirling with questions and thoughts of what I’ll find when I get there. Is she okay? What triggered her? How can I fix this? Who the fuck did this to her?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles blanched and jaw clenched uncomfortably tight. Logically, I know she’s no longer in danger here — she already got away from whoever attacked her in Toronto — but my intrinsic need to protect her supersedes all logic.
When did her happiness become my responsibility?
Maybe it was when she came back here, wounded but still sharp-tongued; or maybe it was long before that — back when I shattered her heart into a million pieces without even realizing it.
The weight of regret settles heavily in my chest, a reminder that I owe her far more than I’ve ever given.
I’ve barely put the truck in park before I’m bounding up the porch steps. Mom steps outside with a broom and dustpan in hand, and that’s when I see the mess. There’s shattered glass on the porch, surrounded by little s crunched up balls of paper.
“I’ll get it,” I say, holding out a hand for the broom. “Where’s Maggie?”
Emotion is coming off of mom in waves — sadness mixed with something like exhaustion.
“She’s upstairs,” she sighs. “Hopefully sleeping.” I can tell there’s more she’s not saying, but I don’t think now's the time to ask, so I set to work cleaning up the mess.
Even though every cell in my body is begging me to check on her, I know she likely needs time and space, so I ignore the urge to go to her.
Once the glass is out of the way, I start on the papers. Unfurling the first one, I see delicate handwriting. I know I shouldn't read it but curiosity gets the better of me.
“His eyes lock on my apex as he spreads my thighs wider, preparing to…”
Jesus, what the hell is this? I pick up the next one and it’s more of the same, but the writing is getting more erratic and disjointed, with angry scribbles over the text. The last paper contains a signature: M.W. Hartley. I tug my phone from my back pocket and pull up the search function.
“Spicy Contemporary Romance Author, M.W. Hartley.”
Holy shit. She’s a writer?
As much as I’d like to find out more, now isn’t the time.
Once the mess is cleared, I stack the papers and tuck them away in mom’s office.
The urgent need to check on Maggie resurfaces and I tamp it down, but as I turn down the hallway, a door to my right opens, revealing a very disheveled looking Mags.
She startles when she spots me, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “Hi.”
“Hey, beautiful.” Beautiful? Where the fuck did that come from? “How are you feeling?”
Her gaze is fixed somewhere behind me as she bites down on her bottom lip. “Your mom called you?”
“Y eah. She was worried. She assumed your boyfriend would want to check on you.”
“Fake boyfriend. And I’m fine.” The words have a bite to them, but her voice is devoid of emotion. It feels… wrong. “Right. Well, you’ve fulfilled your boyfriend duties for the day. I’m fine. You can go.”
She tries to step past me, but I block her path, my hands flexing with the need to pull her to me. “Maggie, what do you need?”
She sighs, letting the tension dissipate as her shoulders slump. “I’m supposed to hate you,” she murmurs, hanging her head to study the carpet.
“But you don’t?” I smirk, trying to infuse a moment of levity into an otherwise tense situation.
A heavy silence settles between us before her eyes meet mine.“What if I don’t?” The rare glimpse of her vulnerability fills me with a sort of protective pride, but the undercurrent of sadness feels like a something is twisting in my chest.
I inch closer, slowly, so she doesn’t startle. Once I’m within arm’s reach, I cup her cheek, running my thumb along her bottom lip. “I don’t think you’re ready for the answer to that, Wildcat.”
Maggie’s pupils dilate as she takes a step into my space, her hand resting gently on my chest. My heartbeat thrums under her fingertips, and the desire to claim her mouth is nearly suffocating.
Just when I think she might close to the distance, she pulls away.
“You’re right. I’m not ready.” She takes a step around me, her footsteps echoing down the stairs.
“I’ll be here when you are,” I whisper.