Page 100 of Trick Shot

I stare at the tile wall where she was standing until guilt dragged her under again.

Guilt overme.

I know exactly what this is.

She thinks she’s being cruel—sleeping with one man while falling for another.

She doesn’t know she doesn’t have to choose.

She doesn’t know I’m the one getting all her screenshots of potential rentals for her flower shop.

She is splitting herself in half.

And I let her.

I fucking let her spiral while I sat back like a sick fuck, watching her fall apart over this “love triangle” that isn’t even real.

I’m tearing her in two with my bare hands.

And that guilt she’s choking on is my fault.

I breathe out through my nose, my heart pounding like a war drum.

No more watching her suffer because I couldn’t handle the truth.

I can’t watch her struggle to choose which version of me to love and which version to let go of.

Time for Melody to meet Ghost.

Chapter sixteen

~MELODY~

I burst into the bedroom like I can outrun what just happened.

The second the door shuts behind me, I start pacing. One hand gripping the towel at my chest, the other trying to get wet strands out of my face. My hair is dripping onto the hardwood floor, and my body’s trembling with everything I don’t want to feel.

I can’t do this to Ghost again. Not until I confess to what’s happening.

And, in some ways, I think he senses it. He’s slipping through my fingers, and I deserve it.

I slept with someone else. And that someone else is still in the bathroom, standing under the water I ran away from.

I lunge toward the bathroom door, heart racing. I just need to shut it with him inside while I get dressed and get out. Seal him off like the mistake I’m trying to convince myself he is. Maybe if I can just slam the door fast enough, I can think. I can breathe. I can—

His hand catches the door, fingers wrapping around the edge. I shove against it, but it doesn’t budge. Not even an inch. His strength is terrifying, because he’s not even pushing. Not even trying.

"Let go," I say through gritted teeth, still pretending like this towel and a door are armor.

He gives the door a shove, and then he’s inside. He peels his shirt off, hair wet and dripping, and he looks better than anything I’ve ever seen.

His carved chest rises and falls too evenly. Water trails down his torso, catching in the ridges of his abs before soaking into the waistband of his workout shorts.

His eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t speak at first, just closes the door behind him with a click so soft it might as well have been a whisper.

"We can’t," I say, retreating a step. "We can’t do this anymore."

"I’m not leaving," he says, tone low and steady. "Not until you tell me why you’re fighting this."