Chapter 14 #2
“Yes, I had a lapse in judgment. But it didn’t mean anything.”
“So you thought it was all right to screw someone else because your feelings weren’t involved?”
He cleared his throat and stayed silent.
How about that—he was listening to her. Too little, too late said her weary heart. No fiery passion or heated emotions remained. “You’re forgiven. Now, go home.”
“Ginny. I can assure you it will never happen again. In a way, it’s good because I came to realize how much I love you. How much I need you.”
She shook her head. She’d known their relationship was dying. Yet, despite her nagging misgivings, she’d written her vows for the wedding and planned to go off birth control.
And then she’d come home early. Seen them. She’d stood there… Her knees almost buckling, tears blurring the room, holding her chest to keep her heart from tearing apart. He’d been the one who was supposed to love her. The man who she could love with all her being. Only he wasn’t.
She’d thrown his ring at him. And as her dreams shredded into tatters, she’d cried.
Now, thinking back to the indescribable pain of that moment, she knew her response had been inadequate.
She should have thrown a cast-iron frying pan.
Staring at him, she had to wonder what had happened to the man she’d thought she’d known. As her friends bucked her up, she’d realized his cheating was one more indication he hadn’t cared. And still, she’d fought the desperation to crawl back. To be loved. Needed.
Yes, being needed was a drug to her, and like any addict, she’d had to go cold turkey. Needed to continue to avoid the drug and the triggers.
And now…now came the apology she longed for. “Too late, Preston.”
“Nonsense, darling. I love you; you love me, and—”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Nope. Doesn’t look to me like she loves you.” The rough voice came from directly behind her, and a powerful hand closed on her shoulder.
She jumped and looked up and up to meet Atticus’s gray-blue eyes. The relaxed impression from his cowboy hat and denim jacket was contradicted by the danger in his stance. “Sweetheart,” he murmured.
The feeling of his hard hand on her shoulder made her world tilt sideways.
He took advantage of her paralysis to plant a firm kiss on her lips.
Oh. Oh, oh, oh.
“What…” Preston rose, shock on his face. “Who the hell is this, Ginny?”
“I’d be the man in her life now,” Atticus said.
His pissed-off growl wasn’t lost on Gin—and didn’t matter at all. His voice sank into her like a spring shower on a drought-stricken plant.
“I doubt that seriously. You need to leave.” Preston gave her an earnest look. “Ginny, send him away so we can talk. But don’t worry, honey, I understand what happens to a woman on the rebound.”
“You don’t know much about women, do you?” Atticus said.
Preston gave him an annoyed glance. “Ginny, I don’t hold this lapse against you. We’ll still get married as we planned.” Preston curled his hand back around hers. “Yes, I want to marry you even if you had a fling. We’ll call it even and start over.”
Oh my stars. What kind of messed-up karma was this? “No, we’re not even, and we’re not starting over. We’re done.” She yanked her hand away and realized Atticus was still right behind her. His powerful hand still gripped her shoulder.
Never let go. Please.
She closed her eyes. And her reaction to his touch was one more reason she couldn’t be with him.
“Preston, go home.” She rose, turned her back on him, and gave Atticus a level look. The words this time came much, much harder. She made her tone forceful. “I’m sorry, Atticus. But I do believe we are not together.”
How could each word feel as if it were drawing blood?
His cowboy hat shaded his eyes as he studied her thoughtfully. Then he nodded and made a motion toward the door for Preston, deliberately letting his jacket fall open to show off his giant sidearm.
Men.
After a second of hesitation, Preston took a few steps. He turned and cast her a hopeful look. “Call me, darling.”
“No. Never.”
Hurt filled his eyes.
Oh. Oh no. No, she couldn’t hurt him. Not him; not anyone. “Oh, honey, I’m not the woman for you. Really I’m not. But you will find one who suits you better. Don’t give up.”
After a second, he nodded and wove his way through the room and out the door.
Atticus, after another unreadable gaze, followed—taking her heart with him. When he’d said, “I’d be the man in her life now,” she’d felt only warmth. Happiness.
But…for heaven’s sake, he wasn’t in her life. They’d split up, hadn’t they? Whatever relationship they’d had was over.
So why had he said that?
When she left the diner, she found Atticus leaning against his mud-spattered pickup, which was parked in front of her car.
His long legs were extended, his arms crossed over his chest. Under the glow of the streetlight, the black hat shaded his features, increasing the ominous look of his dark beard.
“Why are you still here?” She wanted to smack herself for the inane question. “In fact, what were you doing in the restaurant right then?”
“I saw you drive past the station, looking upset. Wanted to make sure you were all right.” He leaned forward, hooked his fingers in her belt, and tugged her between his legs. His hands settled on her hips. “You still look a mite shaken.”
Why did it feel so good to be the target of his concern?
“I’m fine. He was my ex-fiancé.”
“Got that.”
“It’s long over.”
“Got that too. But a woman like you cares deeply. Losing someone would be like hauling a tree out by the roots. You’d hurt…for a long time.”
Her eyes prickled with his quiet understanding. “I did.” She forced a smile. “But I’m all better now.”
He snorted and drew her into his arms. “Liar.”
His masculine mountain scent held a hint of gun oil and leather, and nothing was as comforting. For a moment, maybe two, she nestled against him, soaking up his strength.
And then she moved back. Her heart couldn’t handle being torn apart again, and this man could do far, far more damage than Preston. “Thanks for the hug.”
“My pleasure.” He studied her. “Looks like your evening is free now. This would be a good time to talk.” He opened the pickup’s passenger door.
“Talk? No.”
Ignoring her protest, he hoisted her up into the seat. “Stay put. Let’s get this done, Virginia.” The angle of his jaw displayed an intimidating sternness.
Her throat dried up around her protest. Her fingers started doing a wringing thing. Maybe this was good. Surely, she could explain better. She’d hurt him last time, and she’d never have done that for anything. “Where are you taking me?”
His satisfied smile showed he knew he’d gotten his way. “My place.”
Once at his house, Atticus didn’t want her to have a chance to change her mind. He pulled her straight into the bedroom. This time, she’d listen and so would he.
“Hey.” She tugged against his grip. “You can’t—”
He took her hands between his. “I want to say I’m sorry.”
Her brows drew together. “For what?”
“When you told me how you felt that day in the parking lot, I reacted badly.” He still felt the burn of the insult and shook his head. “You’re a counselor. You know how people process events through their own filters, right?”
Her struggle stopped. “Well, yes. What filter were you using, Atticus?”
“My stepfather beat my mother.”
“I remember you said that.”
“He also ‘used’ her. She slaved to be perfect so he wouldn’t have a reason to hit her.” His mouth twisted. “Of course, violence doesn’t need reasons. But when you said you tried too hard, it felt as if you meant you thought I’d hurt you if you didn’t.”
Dismay filled her face. “No. Oh, no, honey, I didn’t mean that at all.”
He brushed her lips with his. “Took a while, but I figured it out. I’m sorry I reacted instead of listening as I should.” Holding her face between his palms, he looked into her unhappy eyes. “Can you forgive me, Gin?”
“There is absolutely nothing to forgive. This is all related to my problems. You did nothing wrong.”
This kiss was long and gentle; her lips were as soft as her heart. She hadn’t even thought twice about forgiving him. He sank deeper into the kiss, his tongue stroking hers, before he pulled back. They had issues to resolve first.
“I want you out of the clothes.” Without letting her protest, he quickly stripped her down, pushing aside her half-hearted attempts to hinder him. Shoes, pants, sweater, shirt. Pretty yellow underwear.
“We’re not going to…this isn’t the time, Atticus.”
Her gaze focused on his face as she tried to read his expression. With luck, she wouldn’t be able to.
In contrast, she was an open book. Dark circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t been sleeping. Her skin had lost its glow. Those changes were on him, he knew. His inability to get his head on straight had meant a rough two weeks for her.
Him as well. Seeing her in the restaurant with the asshole had strained his control. He’d never felt the full force of jealousy before—or wanted to beat the crap out of another man. But he’d touched her. Had made her unhappy.
Of course, his softhearted woman had forgiven the bastard. Told him to have hope. Gin really was something. He touched her cheek gently.
The confusion in her gaze, the rigidity of her shoulders, the trembling of her fingers—he figured the mixture of ex-fiancé and unsettled relationship with her new man had put those there.
He didn’t like knowing he’d have her shaking much harder before the evening was over. Since he finally had an idea of the problem, he’d push ahead, even if they’d both be miserable while he did.
Oddly enough, even with her naked in front of him, he wasn’t aroused.
The heaviness in his gut said this wouldn’t be an easy “session” even though he wouldn’t put her through a complete scene.
If they’d been together longer, she might have trusted him to tie her up and dig out the traumatic details of her past. Yet—catch-22—if she had confided her story, she’d be able to trust him for more in-depth scenes.