Page 2 of False Start

But as soon as he did, he finally looked at me.

And he jolted to a stop.

I noticed it, the shift in his demeanor that probably would have been lost on anyone else. But I’d learned how to read body language. I’d had to.

It was the only way I could survive against my ex-husband.

I saw his neck strain, noted how his jaw was suddenly tense, his hand rolling into a fist where he held onto his car key fob. He wasn’t standing there with all that swag he just strolled up with. Instead, his face went slack, his breath shallow like he was seeing a ghost.

When he slowly took his sunglasses off, I understood why.

Eyes as bright blue as the hottest flames of a fire stared back at me, sheltered under thick, dark brows and lashes that had once made me jealous.

I’d know those eyes anywhere.

And the sight of them after all this time made me rip my hand back like I’d been electrocuted.

I backed away two steps, then covered my mouth with one hand.

And just like that, the power shifted.

His eyes flicked between mine, unbelieving at first, and then hurt, and then angry — all within seconds. Then, he took a deep breath, like he remembered who he was.

And the bastard smiled.

“Hello, Madelyn,” he said.

And every memory of Kyle Robbins washed over me like a torrential rainstorm.

Kyle

I couldn’t fucking believe it.

Maybe only a few seconds passed, but it felt like I stood there for hours staring at Madelyn James — at a woman who used to be a girl who broke my fucking heart.

Wait, not Madelyn James.

MadelynHearst.

My nostrils flared with what that meant — that she was married, that she really did move on as easily as I thought she had once I was out of her life. I’d stalked her online for longer than I’d ever admit out loud after she so easily let me go, until the night I’d realized holding onto her, onto the idea ofus, was pointless and hazardous to my health.

I’d blocked her, then.

And apparently, she’d gotten married and moved to the West Coast.

Now, she stood in the foyer of a mansion, her ginger hair resting in long, slightly curled waves over her shoulders. Herbrown eyes were framed by thick black lashes, but they had dark bags beneath them. It didn’t just look like she hadn’t slept well.

She looked… exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way I’d never seen her before.

Then again, I hadn’t seen her in years.

It didn’t matter that she wore a white blouse with some floppy bow wrapped around her neck, and a pencil skirt that hugged her slight hips. I still saw her in cut-off shorts and a spaghetti strap top, no bra, no makeup, her skin sun-kissed and begging to be touched.

She was small, even in the six-inch heels she wore. She’d always been petite, but this was different.

She wasstandingsmall, like she was afraid to lift her chin, like she wanted to shrink away and not be seen.

I knew what it was like to see a woman shrink in on herself, to try to become invisible. I’d seen my mother do it all my life.