Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
RONAN
I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but I can’t take the words back now they’re out there. They’re honest in a way I haven’t let myself be in a long time. She doesn’t reply, fiddling with the hem of her sweater, then she takes a breath and looks at me.
“Come back to my apartment with me.” She carries on in a rush, not giving me a chance to reply. “We need to talk. Really talk. Somewhere that isn’t surrounded by all the ghosts of the past.”
She’s right. This place holds too much pain, too many memories of who we used to be.
I nod. “Okay. I’ll follow you in my car.”
We make our way outside without talking.
I wait until she’s in her car, before starting my engine.
Following her taillights through town gives me too much time to think.
My mind replays everything that just happened.
I feel an odd mix of exhaustion and relief.
It feels right finally having everything out in the open, but it’s drained me in ways I didn’t expect.
She signals and turns right into an apartment complex, waits for me to park, then leads me inside without a word.
The elevator ride to her floor takes an eternity.
The space is too small. Her scent fills my lungs.
The memory of her touch burns my skin. I keep my hands shoved in my pockets, fighting against the urge to reach for her.
The doors open, and I follow her down a quiet hallway. Her keys jingle as she unlocks her door. The inside of her apartment is everything I expected it to be. Warm colors on the walls, comfortable furniture, books stacked on every surface. There’s art on the walls that was clearly done by kids.
This is her life. The one she built without me.
Evidence of it is in everything. The photographs on the shelf showing her with friends and family. A collection of mugs that don’t match. A blanket draped over the couch that looks handmade. Small, ordinary things that speak of routine, stability, and home.
All things I’ve never had.
“Coffee?” She breaks the silence, and walks toward the kitchen before I even reply.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I stay where I am, caught between the front door and the living room, feeling like an intruder in this space that’s so completely hers.
The sounds from the kitchen fill the silence—water running, cups clinking, the quiet whir of the coffee maker starting up.
I force myself to move further into the room, stopping near a bookshelf.
My fingers trace the spines without really seeing them.
When she returns, she’s carrying two mugs. Steam curls up from them, carrying the scent of good coffee. She hands me one, our fingers brushing in the transfer. That simple touch sends electricity up my arm.
She settles onto her couch, tucking one leg beneath her. The movement is casual, comfortable.
“Sit.” It’s not quite a command, but it’s not a request either. She touches the couch cushion beside her, and I sit, leaving a small gap between us.
“How long are you planning to stay in town?”
I take a slow breath, trying to ignore how the afternoon light coming through her windows turns her hair to spun gold. “Six months … at least.”
Her eyes lift slightly. “That’s … specific.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you come back?”
Okay, I guess we’re doing this.
I lean forward and set my mug down on the coffee table. My arm brushes against hers as I move. She doesn’t pull away.
“Harris Edwards left me the house on Cedar Street in his will.”
“What?”
“He used to visit me in prison.” The words come slowly. “He brought books. Engineering manuals, technical guides, classic fiction.” I pause, staring at my hands. “I didn’t understand why he bothered. Not then, anyway.”
“And now?”
I laugh quietly. “Still don’t, really. I’m living in a house he gave me, and there are conditions while I’m there.
I have to stay for a minimum of six months and fix the place up so it’s livable again.
” I meet her eyes, and the intensity in her gaze almost stops my breath.
“He made sure I couldn’t walk away easily. ”
“How?”
“Ten thousand dollars a month living allowance, a roof over my head, a car, and all I have to do is work on the house.” I shrug. “Made it hard to turn down.”
She processes this, her expression thoughtful. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and then she winces when they catch on the stitches.
“That sounds like him. He always tried to help when we were kids, even if we didn’t want it.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this. The house, being back here … seeing you again.”
“You mean running into me wasn’t part of the plan? Would you have told me you were here, if we hadn’t crossed each other?”
“Nothing about you has ever gone according to plan.”
She sets her coffee down and turns to face me fully. The movement draws my attention to the curve of her neck, and the fading bites I left there. Something possessive and hungry stirs inside me at the sight.
My marks. My mouth on her skin.
“What’s your plan now?”
I should have an answer. I should be able to tell her exactly what I’m doing, and how I plan to spend the next six months.
But I don’t. Since the day I arrived, I’ve been living from moment to moment, focusing on the next task, the next breath.
And it makes me realize that I’ve been in survival mode since being released from prison.
Maybe she senses that, because her hand finds mine, linking her fingers between my own like they belong there.
The contact sends heat racing up my arm.
She traces her thumb over my knuckles, and the urge to drag her onto my lap and finish what we started in the factory is almost impossible to resist.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to know all the answers right now.” Her eyes don’t lift from where they’re fixed on our joined hands. “In fact, right now, I don’t want to analyze anything, or dissect it, or figure out what it all means.”
“What do you want?”
Her other hand slides up my thigh. The touch is light, but it still burns through my jeans. “I want to stop overthinking everything.” She leans closer. “I want to feel something real again.”
The space between us crackles with tension. I lift my hand to trace the line of her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingertips. She tilts her head, exposing more skin, and that’s all the invitation I need.
I kiss her. It’s not like in the factory, where it was all heat and desperation born of pain and anger. This is slower, more deliberate. I take my time, learning the shape of her mouth again, taking care not to hurt her lip, while I rediscover the way she tastes, and the sounds she makes.
When she moves to straddle my lap, I lean back, giving her control and letting her set whatever pace she wants. Her weight settles against me, and I have to fight to keep my hands gentle on her hips when all I want is to grip harder, and pull her closer.
Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, sliding under to flatten her palm against my ribs. “Take this off.”
I comply, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside.
Her eyes trace over my chest, my shoulders, my arms, lingering on the ink that marks my skin.
When she touches me, her hands are sure.
There’s nothing hesitant about the way she explores, her fingertips following the lines of muscle, the edges of tattoos, and the scars I’ve collected over the years.
“Your turn.” My voice is rough.
She lifts her arms, letting me pull the sweater over her head. Sunlight paints patterns across her skin, highlighting the curves and planes I remember, and the changes time has made. When I run my fingers over her skin, her breath hitches.
I lean forward to press my mouth to her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast hidden by the lacy bra.
“Bedroom.” The word falls from her lips like a demand, breathless and urgent.
I stand, lifting her with me. Her legs wrap around my waist. “Where is it?”
“Second door on the left.”
I’m moving before she finishes speaking, navigating her hallway while she kisses my neck, my jaw, my mouth. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp in a way that makes me dizzy with need.
This isn’t about the past anymore. This is about now. Us. And whatever we’re building in this moment.