Page 49 of From the Wreckage

Brielle

The bell above the diner door jingles as we step out into the sunlight. The air is warm, the scent of sugar and coffee still clinging to me, but that’s not what has my chest buzzing.

It’s the waitress’s words. You two remind me of them. The married couple of forty years. The husband still doting on his wife like it’s new.

Everett hadn’t said anything since, just tossed a couple of bills on the table and walked me out with his hand pressed low against my back. I felt the tension rolling off him in waves.

Now, standing by his bike, I glance up at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes averted as he hooks the chin strap, but I know him well enough to see it. He’s retreating into himself.

“Don’t look so grim,” I tease softly, trying to lighten the air. “She thought we were married. That’s kind of sweet, don’t you think?”

His throat works as he swallows, his voice rough. “It’s not reality, Brielle.”

The sting cuts sharper than I expect, but I mask it with a small smile. “Maybe not right now. But it felt nice.” I shrug, trying to make it sound casual, even though my heart is beating too hard. “Being mistaken for yours.”

That gets him. His head snaps toward me, and for a second, I see past the shield covering his face to the storm in his eyes. Longing mixes with guilt. It’s so raw it nearly brings me to my knees.

“Angel…” His voice cracks like gravel. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But I do know. And the fact that he pretends he doesn’t hurts more than I can say.

When he hands me the helmet, his fingers brush mine, sparking heat down my arm. And when I climb onto the bike behind him, determination flows through me. I press myself tightly to his back, wrapping my arms tightly around him.

We aren’t married. Maybe we aren’t supposed to be.

But for a heartbeat, I can pretend.