Page 60 of Rogue

A quarter mile down the road, I’m still in a dead run when I’m abruptly swept up off my feet. He holds me in a tight bear hug while I wiggle and kick and struggle to stop the hail of tears running down my face, struggle not to shatter into tiny emotional pieces. I break an arm free and promptly elbow him in the side, just below the ribs. He drops me and I’m off. Until I’m tackled from behind.

I’m falling.

We’re falling.

And there’s nowhere for us to go except down.

At the last second, he turns, taking the brunt of it as we hit the asphalt pavement. Anyone driving by would either hastily ring Sheriff Rush—yeah, a lot of good that’d do—or more likely turn a blind eye, something townsfolk have grown accustomed to doing. But there’s not a car in sight. And I don’t care. I can’t think straight. I can’t stop crying. I can’t do this.

I cease my struggles, bury my nose into the crook of his neck, and simply break. I sob from the depths of my soul as he wraps his arms tightly around me without a word. I lay on top of him until my tears dry up and my racing heart calms. Until small, embarrassing hiccups replace the sorrowful sound of my anguish.

I try to roll to the side, but he refuses to release his hold on me. Forcing me to raise my head and, between swollen eyelids, make eye contact.

“Hey, fireball. I get that you missed me. But there’s no need to get all sentimental about it.”

I blink.

He smirks down at me.

And suddenly, my burden seems lighter. “More like the sight of you traumatized me enough to cause this massive freak show of emotion.”

“Yeah. I have a way of making a woman come apart in my arms.”

“Ever the man-whore.” A final sniffle escapes.

“You going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He laughs but it’s more of the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me kind.

Jesus. I close my eyes tight and ground out, “Why are you here?”

“You want to play it that way, a question for a question. Fine. My turn. Don’t you get it yet?”

I laugh. It’s not a full-bellied one but more of a shallow, incredulous one. But it’s a laugh nevertheless. A question for a question? Knowing Jaxson, I’ll never get a straight answer. Yet confiding in him why his neck is coated with my tears, when I’m this raw . . . “Get what, Jaxson?”

He shakes his head. No. But he’s got this look in his eyes. My breath hitches at the sincerity within his blue depths.

Oh my God. He feels it too.

Reaching for me, he runs a finger beneath my eye. I still beneath his touch, then stiffen when I spy what he holds up for my inspection. A perfectly shaped teardrop sits on his fingertip. A perfectly brown, muddied teardrop. Jesus, I can’t even cry like a typical girl.

This is the real deal. Him being here, finding me, this matters.

I’m raw. Ill-equipped to deal with another emotional onslaught. Will I ever be wholeheartedly ready for what this man could do to me? Do I want him here?

Yes. Yes you do.

“Why were you crying?”

“I’ve got dust in my eye.”

He runs his finger beneath the other eye and scoops up another muddied teardrop.

“Kylie . . .”

“Jaxson . . .”