Chapter 8
Nick didn’t leave right away.
Maybe he should have, but he needed to know Aubrey was warm. Since he refused to hover in her yard like some kind of creepy
stalker, he backed his truck out to the cul-de-sac, then parked along the curb. There. Now he could only see the same thing
as every other passerby out walking their dog.
On the other side of the bay windows, Aubrey stood at her fireplace, staring down. Probably thinking about what an asshole
he was. Which apparently required a lot of contemplation, because she didn’t move for a long time. Neither did he.
He knew when the house started to thaw, because she finally left the room and reappeared looking ten years younger, her fancy
clothes swapped out for flannel pajamas, half her hair pulled up and her makeup wiped away.
Fuck, she looked beautiful. Vulnerable, too, and in the most unapologetic of ways, like the girl he remembered.
He wished she’d felt comfortable showing him that side of herself, but of course she hadn’t. Especially not after he’d fucked
everything up by telling her he didn’t regret what he’d done.
He groaned. That was the most brutal question she could have asked. The same one that had rotted inside him for half his life.
But he’d forced an honest answer, because Aubrey deserved that much.
So, yes, while he despised having hurt her with an intensity that sickened him, no, he wouldn’t undo it.
He couldn’t, because it had ultimately brought Paige into existence.
And his daughter was his life, his whole world. His single greatest
contribution to planet Earth.
He just wished Aubrey had let him explain. There was still so much she didn’t understand, things he’d never gotten the chance
to tell her.
Inside, she lay down on the blue-upholstered antique couch. His fists tightened around the steering wheel as he imagined himself
still in there, pulling her head onto his lap, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. He fantasized about murmuring to her
as she dreamed, telling her that underneath the slick city polish, he still saw the same girl he’d fallen in love with. A
woman with passion and heart. Someone destined to achieve greatness, one equation at a time.
A telltale heat invaded the back of his eyes, which he scrubbed away. Fuck, he probably should’ve just lied to her. Maybe
then she would’ve let him hold her again. Granted him another moment of euphoria like the one in front of the fireplace, when
she’d cried and sought comfort in his arms.
That had felt incredible, even more so because he’d expected her to shove him away. When she hadn’t, every cell in his body
had screamed not to let go, to never let her go. Then the urge to point out where they were had nearly overcome him. For that
brief, exultant moment, they’d sat in the exact place in which they’d traded their virginities to each other on what Nick
still considered the best night of his life.
His phone chimed in his back pocket. With a grumble, he pulled it out, anticipating a text from Jackson or Tansy, but the
notification brought him to a browser page he didn’t recognize.
He squinted, then did a double take. MontanaBirder81 had just signed up for his love-letter-writing service. Which meant four hundred dollars, in the bank.
A message icon blinked at the top of the screen. He clicked.
Hi Nick,
How lucky that I came across your ad this evening. I’ve been looking for a service like yours, but haven’t found it anywhere
else. I’m hoping you can help me.
Here’s the story. There’s a woman who just moved back to Billings after spending a couple decades away. We went to high school
together, but back then, I never got up the courage to act on my feelings. Now’s my second chance, and I don’t want to screw
it up.
Thing is, she’s the love-letter type, but I don’t trust myself to do it right. She’s high-class and needs a soft touch, nothing
too forward.
Think you can help?
John
A harsh laugh erupted from Nick’s chest, sending a silvered jet into the chill of the truck. An old flame from high school
had shown up and thrown this guy into a tailspin? The fuck? The universe was clearly flipping him the middle finger right
now. Even while helping him out.
He tapped Reply.
Hi John,
Thanks for the booking, and for the vote of confidence. I can definitely help. What kind of letter are you looking for first,
and what about this woman entices you?
Nick
He clicked Send and glanced up. Inside, Aubrey looked to be sleeping. Her skin glowed like abalone in the firelight. Even
from here, he could tell how soft it was, could trace the way her nose turned charmingly upward at the tip.
She would probably never speak to him again.
His phone buzzed.
Nick,
Her name’s Jane. She’s the total package. Think beauty queen credentials with a fashion sense to match. We’re having dinner
this weekend, and I want to give her the first letter then. Like I said, she needs a soft touch, so I won’t push for much
on our date. I’m hoping the letter can do the heavy lifting for me.
John
Nick read the message twice. Jane. And John. What bland, boring names—like aliases on a poorly written crime show. But whatever.
He hoped they lived a long and happy life together, even if John sounded a little shallow.
He hit Reply. Okay, he typed, here’s what you write. Dear Jane . . .
He wrote the whole letter in one go. The words were for Aubrey, of course. They were his ripped-up guts, splattered onto the screen in the rawest and most visceral way possible.
Because he knew this was the closest he’d ever get. He’d never touch her again, never regain her trust, never sink into her
the way he ached to down to the roots of his being. Even if by some miracle she someday forgave him, she’d made it abundantly
clear she had no plans to stay in Henderson.
Which meant their situation hadn’t changed. Even if it had, what would he say? Hey, I know you’re a superhero genius who can have any guy she wants, but would you consider one whose pastimes include getting
punched in the face and trying to fall out of love with you?
Yeah. Sure.
When he finished the letter, he hit Send and flicked the truck key. The engine sputtered to life, but thankfully, Aubrey didn’t
stir.
He drove home slowly, not in any hurry to face Tansy. What was it she’d told him? Don’t get carried away?
Un-fucking-believable that she could say that with a straight face. She might as well have commanded him not to swim, then
shoved him into the deepest end of the pool.
But he’d do his damnedest, for both their sakes. After all, he’d indulged himself. Gone and made sure Aubrey was safe.
Now he would leave her in peace.
When he got home, Tansy had already gone to bed.
In his room, Nick tried to read an old standby, The Alchemist—he would never tire of the dreaminess of Coelho’s prose—but tonight, the words drifted past, insubstantial.
He finally gave up and turned off the light, then lay in the dark, a tight ache pulsing low in his stomach.
He couldn’t stop reliving how Aubrey had felt in his arms, so warm and soft and brokenhearted over the injustice some nameless asshole had dealt her.
She’d smelled incredible, too, like sun-warmed cashmere, and he’d wanted to tear someone apart for her.
Punch whoever he had to punch in order to funnel her life back onto its rightful course.
Sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned, the ache inside him tightening like a turned screw. When he could stand it no longer,
he got up, took a shower, did all that came with it, and dropped back into bed again.
Hours later, when he finally slept, Nick dreamed Aubrey didn’t hate him.
That somewhere, a world existed in which she never had.