Chapter Nineteen #2
Mary-B’s still fluffing the basket like it’s about to be judged at a county fair. I watch her straighten the bottle of champagne, shift the Red Vines, then tilt the damn teddy bear like it matters what angle it’s sitting at. My nerves fray with every second that ticks by.
My legs are cramping. My pride’s in shreds. And here I am, lurking in the bushes like some lovesick fool in a Netflix thriller rather than the guy from the Hallmark movie she wanted me to be.
But I need to know.
I need to see if there is hope.
Even just a flicker.
Mary-B finally bops her head like she’s proud of her work and steps up to ring the bell.
I inch forward, eyes locked on that front door.
My breath catches, my palms sweat, my jaw wracking from side to side.
This is it.
The moment of truth.
And all I can do is watch from the dirt, hidden behind a hedge, wondering when the hell I stopped being the guy who had control of his own life.
I’ve really lowered my morals.
But hell, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
Mary-B is still picking at the cellophane, making it look perfect. I now know why she’s the best secretary in the company because she does a great job. I’ve obviously had my head so far up my ass I haven’t seen shit around the company.
I freeze the second Lyric appears.
She walks to the front door, and for a moment, all I can do is stare, my breath caught somewhere between reverence and regret.
She looks wrecked, her face blotchy from crying, eyes rimmed red, but damn if she still isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
There’s something about her when she looks like this, raw, undone, real, that grips me by the throat.
Those tiny denim shorts cling to her hips like they were made to torture me, riding high on those smooth, sun-kissed thighs that have haunted my dreams for months. The frayed edges brush her skin like a tease, and my palms twitch with the memory of how they feel under my touch.
Her white tank top is so tight, it clings to her perfectly. Hugging every curve of her breasts like a second skin, the kind of view that makes a man forget how to breathe. My cock pulses hard, needy, aching to bury itself in the woman I’d give anything to hold again.
But underneath the heat, there’s something heavier, something that settles like a weight in my chest. Because even through her beauty, I see the hurt, and I know, I did this.
I hurt her.
And yet she still manages to look like a goddamn miracle on my worst day.
Lyric’s eyes narrow as she takes in Mary-B standing at her front door, holding the gift basket. “Hi, can I help you?” Lyric’s husky, gorgeous voice asks.
Mary-B’s face exudes formality. Ever the professional. “I have a special delivery for Lyric Griffin.”
Lyric shifts uncomfortably, assessing the parcel. She wipes her face like she’s trying to fight the tears from falling. “Who’s it from?” she asks.
If Mary-B tells Lyric, she might not accept it.
She might not read my letter.
“The sender didn’t disclose their name when ordering, ma’am. I’m just here to deliver. We hope you enjoy your sugary treats.” Mary-B hands the parcel over to Lyric.
She hesitates but takes it from her.
Damn, you’re good, Mary-B.
“Thank you,” Lyric offers, finally seeming to break out of her shocked state.
“You’re welcome. Have a sweet day,” Mary-B coos, keeping up the pretense she’s from some gift basket company. She turns, walking away without another word as Lyric shuts the door while Mary-B walks back to her car.
I turn and peer through the slightly open window, my breath shallow as I watch her move across the living room. Lyric’s muttering to herself, rifling through the basket like it personally offends her. “If this is from Chase, he should’ve gotten me something that won’t make me fat.”
I flinch. Fuck.
My hand runs down my face. “Seriously? That’s what she’s focused on?” I shake my head, jaw tight. “It’s not about the damn candy, Lyri. It’s about me trying,” I murmur under my breath, making sure to keep my voice low so she doesn’t hear me watching her outside her front window.
Still, I can’t help the twist in my gut. She’s pissed. Hurt. And I deserve every second of her side-eye. But I did think the Red Vines would at least score a smile.
“Rawrr… lardass, lardass,” Polly Parton calls out from the back room. It should make me laugh, but instead, I simply feel like an asshole.
I wonder, is he still eating his apples or being a stubborn boy for Lyri?
“Quiet, Polly. You’re not such a slender bird yourself.”
“Rawrr… fuck off.”
Lyric groans as she drops the basket onto the coffee table like it might bite her, staring at it with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for live grenades. “Polly, be quiet. This is a serious situation right now.”
I stay crouched low, barely breathing. The rest of the world fades out—cars, wind, time itself—it all dissolves into static.
All I see is her.
Every little movement she makes, I take in like I’m starving.
The scrunch of her nose when she mutters to the parrot.
The frustrated flick of her fingers as she pulls the ribbon.
The soft way her lip gets caught between her teeth when she spots the toy for Polly.
I watch it all like a man on the outside looking in, because I am.
And I hate it.
She lifts the champagne out of the basket and holds it up like it’s a peace offering from a stranger she’s not sure she wants to forgive.
“This’ll do nicely,” she mutters, setting it aside and digging deeper.
She moves slow, hesitant, like the gift might explode if she lets herself believe it means something.
When she pulls out the bear and reads the shirt, a dry laugh escapes her lips.
“This has got to be from Chase because he is an idiot.”
I smirk because she’s not wrong.
Then she reaches for the card.
My breathing spikes in anticipation, but she doesn’t even open it right away.
She just holds it, staring at the envelope like it’s some final verdict she’s not ready to hear.
Her fingers tremble, not much, just a flicker, but I see it.
I fucking feel it. I want to break through this window, race in there, and hold her. Tell her over and over again that…
I’m sorry I made her hands shake like that.
That I made her eyes red like that.
That I made her hurt like that.
I want to make it okay, but I know breaking into her house right now would do worse things than if she knew I was sitting outside watching her like a damn creeper.
Lyric finally finds her inner strength, and my chest tightens as she pulls the card free. Her eyes fall to the goat on the front, and a faint smile appears on her lips.
My chest tightens as she slowly opens the card, that long, measured breath of hers cutting straight through me. It’s like watching a live wire inch toward something explosive, and I’m powerless to stop it.
God, I wish I were in there with her. Just for a second.
To see what she’s really feeling. To hear her say my name, not in anger or heartbreak, but like she used to, when everything between us felt like a possibility instead of ruin.
But instead, I’m the dumbass crouched in a bush, eyes locked on her every move, silently begging the universe not to let her chuck that card straight into the trash.
Something behind me catches my attention.
It’s only faint, but it’s too heavy to be the wind making the hairs on my neck stand up.
“Whatcha doin’?”
Before I can even process it, warm breath hits my ear.
I jerk so violently, I swear my soul leaves my body.
My feet scramble for footing, but the mulch gives way beneath me, and I lose balance entirely and crash back into the bush with a sharp crack of branches and a rusted garden gnome snapping clean off its base as I roll over it.
Something pokes me in the ribs, probably a rogue sprinkler head, but I’m too busy trying to shove my heart back down from my throat as I roll along the grass.
Lyric’s head snaps toward the window.
Shit.
I scramble to my knees, keeping low, to get back under the window, flailing like a soldier under duress. Beside me, crouched with all the grace of a smug bastard on a mission, Dax peers through the leaves with a wide grin like he’s just found treasure.
“Jesus Christ, Dax!” I hiss, barely able to breathe as I twist and press myself flat into the grass. “I nearly shit myself,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
He doesn’t flinch, just smiles like the smug bastard he is. “I knew you’d pull some solo recon bullshit.”
“You followed me?”
“You ditched me,” he whispers with mock offense. “That hurt, man.”
I scowl, still trying to calm the racing pulse pounding in my ears. “You don’t sneak up on a guy mid-stalk!”
“I prefer to call it field intel collection,” he whispers, brushing off his knees like this is some training exercise. “Besides, I brought snacks. You want a beer?”
“Beer is not a snack. You’re lucky I didn’t swing on instinct.”
“You did squeal, though,” he whispers with a snort. “High-pitched. Delicate. Like a man who’s just seen a spider.”
“I did not squeal.”
Dax chuckles. “You did. It echoed.”
We both duck lower as Lyric approaches the window again, brow furrowed like she’s trying to make sense of the sound. I swear she squints directly at the bush we’re in, and my muscles lock up on instinct as we both press up against the side of her house beneath the window.
This time, a spider crawls right beside my head, making me grimace.
“Don’t… move,” Dax murmurs. “If we stay still, she can’t see us. Like velociraptors.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “That’s the T. rex, you idiot. God, I hate you.”
Dax slaps my chest. “But you love that I showed up.”
I don’t answer, shooting him a glare before shifting to peek through the leaves again. Inside, Lyric has settled back on the couch, still holding the card.
Still reading.
Dax nudges me with his elbow. “Look at that. She hasn’t thrown it out yet!”