Chapter 28
How can a week be measured in so many different ways?
Seven precious days since the breakfast marking the morning after Troy and I consummated our relationship. Where I’ve spent every night in his bed since. If I measure it in heartbeats, I’m traveling at the speed of light. If I measure it in routine, we’ve fallen into one. Naturally. Easily.
We wake up. He fuels me first with himself, then with coffee. We go our separate ways to work and come back together in the early afternoon. We spend the evening in front of roaring fires before we retire to his rooms.
A week can also be measured in desperation—as in the more frequent emails I’m receiving from Bryce. With a sigh, I read the latest one.
To: Maya Cox
From: B. Parry
Subject: Why won’t you talk to me?
I know you don’t owe me anything—not after what you saw in the news and on social media. But I can’t stop thinking about you, us. What we had.
Every morning feels wrong. Every night I catch myself reaching for the other side of the bed like you’re still there.
I don’t know how you gave us up without a fight. I just need to understand how you could walk away so easily when everything we had meant everything to me.
I’ve changed. I swear I have. You know me better than anyone, and I can’t accept that you’d just erase what we were. Please, Maya. Talk to me.
One last time.
—B
I file the message with the others he’s sent and block this email address too. Rolling my shoulders, I mutter, “I really wish I didn’t need to keep this email address for work so he’d stop reaching out.”
That’s when I hear him behind me. “What’s wrong?”
Shit. Troy whirls my chair around so I’m facing him when he asks, “Maya, what’s happening?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t stress you out like this.” He crouches down in front of me and covers my hands with his own. “Talk to me, uvetta mia.”
So, I do. I tell him about Bryce still reaching out to me via email. About the delusional persistence that I’ll be right there for him. I conclude with, “It’s like he thinks I owe him something.”
His jaw twitches. “You don’t owe him a damn thing, Maya—least of all your time. But only you can decide what should happen next. Reply, don’t reply. The decision is up to you.”
My voice comes out as a rasp when I admit, “I don’t want my future to include him hanging around my neck like an albatross.”
The storm in Troy’s gaze banks slightly. His thumb brushes my wrist in slow, grounding circles. “He doesn’t get to take any more space in your head than you allow.”
I release a slow breath. “Thank you.”
“For?”
Lifting my hand, I cup the side of his cheek. “Always having my back.”
He covers my hand with one of his. “Didn’t I promise you I always would?”
His words fling me back to a weekend when Troy was in town and Bryce was playing the big football hero at what was supposed to be a surprise birthday event for him that included only private family and friends.
He ruined that by grandstanding at the restaurant, taking photos with everyone—working the room while everyone inside was plunged into dim lights and disappointment.
At the entrance to our private room, I lean against the jamb, swirling a glass of wine. One swish for every photo he took as he worked the room. “I know he thinks it’s just dinner with me, but this is ridiculous.”
That’s when I hear Troy’s voice behind me. “What did that poor wine do to you? There’s aerating it and then there’s murdering it.”
I choke out a laugh. “Good of you to notice.”
“You’d be surprised at what I see done to a decent red. Here,” he hands me a fresh glass. Shuddering, he mocks, “Were you whispering incantations into it?”
Twisting around to face him instead of the birthday boy, my lips quirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I only ask because if the spell ricochets at me, it’s okay.” His eyes twinkle.
“So good to know.” I reach out to squeeze his hand. Troy takes it and when he does, an electrical charge shoots up my arm.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word. We’re locked in each other’s gazes until Bryce’s voice exclaims, “Troy? What are you doing here?”
Recovering first, he clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”
Bryce whips his head in my direction. I lift my glass and take a sip of wine before saying flatly, “Surprise.”
“Really? For me?”
I shrug, my frustration evident. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Without a kiss, a hug, not even a thank you, Bryce sails into the room to bask in more glory he feels is his due.
Just as I’m about to follow him, Troy stops me with his hand on my wrist. “No matter what, I’ll always have your back, Maya.”
Flung back from the memory by the squeeze of Troy’s fingers on my hands, I exhale, “You did.”
He leans forward and the air between us hums, charged with everything that’s changed between us.
I admit something I haven’t even told my girls. “I hate that his emails still bother me.”
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”
I rear back slightly. “You would?”
“It’s residual leftover from your relationship with him. You weren’t just together for all those years; you were a part of each other’s lives for a long time before that.” His words hit deep because of their simple truth and because of the lack of resentment.
A part of me I didn’t realize I locked away that afternoon at Bryce’s cracks open. It’s a quiet pressure I didn’t know I’d been clutching to ensure I didn’t break—control. Control of my words. My story. My past.
Control how I could have fallen in love with a pile of turd like Bryce Parry when there are men like Troy Walsh in the world. With that thought, I lean forward until my forehead rests against his, my inhale absorbing his steady exhale. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For just… listening.”
“You never have to thank me for that.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers sifting through my hair. “You just need reminding of how strong you really are.”
I huff out a shaky laugh, because of course he’d say something like that.
When I finally pull back, he lets me go slowly, like he doesn’t want to but appreciates how I need to stand on my own two feet right now. That the moment of fragility has passed. I don’t understand how Troy gets me, but he does.
And that, more than anything, makes me both excited and terrified. Trying to lighten the moment, I bring us back to neutral territory. “What brought you upstairs?”
“I came to see if you’re interested in an afternoon snack.” His tone deliberately lighter.
“Are you cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m starving.”
“Good.” He stands and offers me his hand.
Taking it, I believe things are good—at least for the first time since that email landed in my inbox. It’s not just because it’s Troy who says it—it’s the way he looks at me when he says it, like he’d take every bruise on my heart and bear it himself if I let him.