CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hardy
I sit in my car in the garage. The engine is off. The cab light has long since timed out.
Last night I went out to the bar with the guys. Did I want to go? No. Not at all. But I forced myself to go, to take a break from Whitney, but more to remain in control of ... of what, Hardy? What are you trying to control?
How Whitney calls you Alexander Hardy and when she does, you don’t flinch at the sound of it? How Whitney saying your first name doesn’t cause that immediate and negative gut-check reaction like it always has?
Or is it how she’s all you think about? When you wake up. When you’re at her academy doing all the shit you’re doing to help her out. When you’re at your own practice. When she falls asleep on the couch and you study her, wondering how you can prolong this when you know for a fucking fact it has an expiration date on it you know you can’t extend.
It’s maddening.
I fell asleep in her bed the other night. Right there on her shoulder, I fell asleep and woke up to the sexy softness of her. The even breathing of her chest rising and falling. The rosy pink of her cheeks and the blush of pink on her lips.
I’ve never wanted anyone more. And not just for sex—because the memory of how she feels wrapped around me is enough to make me go barmy—but when have I ever wanted to cuddle with someone? When have I ever wanted to pull a woman near simply so I could bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in?
I scrub a hand over my face and meet my eyes in the rearview mirror. I see a man who’s played too many games in his life. One who lets women come and go without attachment or fight. A person who never considered other’s feelings or cared to put the effort in.
But that’s all I want to do right now. Fight for her. Fight with her. Be with her. Learn everything there is to know about her.
Whitney Barnes—the kid who was forgotten, who no one cared enough about to claim—deserves the world and way fucking better than me. Point blank. End of story.
My head’s a goddamn mess of thoughts.
I’ve been tiptoeing around her. Trying to fight the pull that has a total stranglehold on me. Trying not to be mad at her for something she can’t control—everything she is—and everything I’m not.
There’s a reason I’m pushing so hard to fix her flat and upgrade everything at the academy. Why I’ve included Martin in every aspect of everything I’m doing. Why I want it to be perfect, better, and lasting so that some of that stress is off her shoulders, and she can maybe chase a different dream of her own.
I’m doing all of this to make up for my shortcomings—everything I’m not—and to show her everything she is... or rather...that she’s worth it.
How soon will she get the all-clear from the doctor to go back to work? Does that mean she’ll go back to her apartment, her life, and realize she doesn’t need me? And this is me we’re talking about. So why do I desperately want her to stay when I’ve never wanted anyone to ever stay at my place?
Another night of torture awaits.
I close my eyes and groan.
It’s frustrating and torture to want Whitney every second of every minute and not be able to act on it. The number of times I’ve thought about yanking her up against me and taking until I can’t take anymore. Until she’s all I can eat, sleep, and breathe.
She’s recovering.
Her body needs to heal.
But hell if that stops the thoughts. And fuck if that adds to the torture.
Most of all though, I know what I’m fucking ignoring.
Just call it what it is and stop pussyfooting around, Hardy.
I’ve fallen for her. Gone and fucking fell for her, which is what it is, but how do you tell a woman that when she’s the first to admit she bolts?
You don’t tell her.
You show her.
And you hope she believes it.