Chapter 8
The rough surface of the log bit into the backs of Emily’s legs, her dress reaching mid-thigh as she looked into Preston’s eyes. Eyes that, for a flicker of a second, dropped to her lips before sliding back up.
A small hint of what he wanted. Or of what might come.
Gently, she rubbed her palms over her bare arms, trying to chase away the chill.
“Cold?” he asked, voice smooth.
“I’m okay.”
Without a word, he pulled off his black jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Warmth slid over her skin, easing the bite of the cold. “Thank you.”
“You know I’d do anything for you, right?”
“Anything?”
One side of his mouth lifted, showing a perfect dimple. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you like how I look in this dress.”
He chuckled, the deep kind that could break hearts. “You think that’s all I like about you? The way you look?” He slipped a piece of hair behind her ear, his finger strategically grazing her cheek. “I see so far past that.”
“Who do you see?”
“A girl who tries to hide her heart behind a smile.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “A woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.” A kiss to her other cheek. “I see all of you, even the parts you try to hide.”
He lifted his head, only a fraction, but his lips were right there, his warm, minty breath mingling with hers. Slowly, so slowly he didn’t look like he was moving, he began to dip his head.
She didn’t move, expecting the kiss. The familiar feel of his lips. They were just about to touch hers when—
“Cut!”
Preston cursed and leaned back, his soft, romantic expression replaced with a scowl. “Why, Roscoe? Why? You’ve cut this scene a million times! It’s going to be morning soon.”
“Because I don’t feel the love.” Roscoe shook his hands in the air like he wanted to strangle someone.
If Emily wasn’t drop-to-the-floor level exhausted, she might actually laugh at the man’s dramatics.
Preston shot to his feet and stormed over to the director. As the two men argued for what had to be the twentieth time that night, Emily yawned.
Her mouth was still wide open, when she looked his way.
Ryan. He’d been standing beside that lodgepole pine tree the entire night. Why? Why this scene? As it was, he looked so tense it was possible he might actually break into pieces.
She dragged her gaze away. Funnily enough, she was too tired to care. Night shoots were the bane of her existence. They sucked. Big, kick-in-the-teeth-while-dreaming-about-bed kind of suck.
It was cold. She was tired. And no one knew when Roscoe would be happy.
At least her mother wasn’t here. Melanie Prior talked a big game, but if the clock passed midnight, she was out.
Lucky her.
For a second, she closed her eyes. Just a second.
Mistake. Big mistake. She swayed. Heck, she might have fallen right off the log she was sitting on, but a shoulder was suddenly beside her, propping her up.
Without opening her eyes, she knew it wasn’t Preston. Because she knew that shoulder. That scent.
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked gently. Too gently. His voice almost drew her back in time. To when he was hers and she was his.
She looked at him, not quite sure her eyes were fully open. “Tired.”
“We’re not going to get it tonight,” Roscoe shouted. “We’ll go again tomorrow night.”
Great. And by tomorrow night, he meant tonight, because what was it? Four in the morning? Five?
She stood. “I’m going to the inn to sleep and hopefully not wake for a very long time.”
“I’ll drive you.”
She almost laughed, because a car trip alone with Ryan? No thank you. “I’ve got my car.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m used to getting no sleep.”
Uh, yes, because he was a big bad former SEAL. “I’ll get a ride with someone else.” She started moving through the trees, for some reason feeling irrationally annoyed when he matched her step for step. “You don’t need to follow me.”
“You’re going the wrong way. I need to make sure you get back okay.”
Was she? Dammit. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Maybe it was because of the long night of shooting, maybe because she was exhausted, but she suddenly got the uncontrollable urge to rage at the man.
She spun. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“This! All of it. We’re not together, so you don’t need to protect me or watch over me.”
“I will always want to protect you.”
“You didn’t that night.”
He flinched. And shit. She didn’t mean the crash. She’d meant the breakup. Her heart.
She swallowed, thanking every star that there was no one close by as she said the next part. “I need you to leave me alone. You stopped loving me and—”
“You think I stopped loving you?”
“Maybe not completely. But if you’d loved me like I loved you, you never would have done what you did.”
Emotions flickered across his face. Pain. Anger. And maybe even a bit of agony. “I loved you, Emi. Fuck, I loved you with my whole heart. But you were going to give it all up for me. I couldn’t let you do that. So I made a choice. I put you first.”
“No, you didn’t. You put you first. Because you didn’t want to be blamed if I ever regretted my decision.”
“You would have resented me eventually.”
“Stop telling me what I would and wouldn’t have done!
Stop telling me what I want and what I need!
Just stop.” Sudden tears filled her eyes, and she knew this wasn’t the time to have this conversation.
But dammit, the words just flowed out of her.
“You think you gave me something. You didn’t.
You took it away. You took away my choice.
You took the future I’d planned for us. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that. ”
“You would have chosen me.”
“Exactly. I wanted you. But you just cut me out. You left. You didn’t even call or text after.”
He flinched. “I called. I texted.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“What are you talking about? I called the next day to make sure you were okay.” He inched closer. “The call didn’t go through. So I texted. I continued to text every week for months. Shit, I’ve sent you a dozen messages just in the last two weeks, and you haven’t responded once.”
Confusion shrouded her like a fog. She studied his face, his eyes, looking for signs he was lying.
There were none. He was telling the truth.
So what the hell had happened? And why was she still not getting his calls or texts?
Ryan watched confusion sweep over Emily’s face.
“You got my texts, didn’t you?” He wanted to touch her but kept his hands at his sides. “Tell me you got them, Emi.”
Her eyes flared. “It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t change what you did. It wouldn’t change that you broke us.”
Broke us… The words felt like a physical blow, so swift and sharp he didn’t have time to brace.
It was true. He had broken them. He knew that.
So why did it hurt so fucking much to hear?
Because standing here, under the glow of the moon, he could almost convince himself that he was back there.
In that moment of time before he’d blown up both their worlds.
Before the best part of his life had just disappeared.
He cupped her cheek, expecting her to push him away. Or step back or yell or scream at him. She did none of those things. She just stood there, looking so sad that he wanted to fix it. Put the pieces he’d shattered back together.
He leaned his head down and touched his lips to her ear. “Forgive me.”
“How?” Her warm breath whispered over his neck.
That was it, wasn’t it? He didn’t know, either. How did he earn her forgiveness when he didn’t even forgive himself?
He had no answer. So instead, he touched his lips to her skin, just beneath her ear.
An almost silent gasp escaped her lips.
He kissed her again, this time at her jawline.
She touched his stomach, small palms pressing to his shirt.
The kisses grew closer to her mouth, a gentle exploration of her skin. A re-familiarization of the only woman who’d ever owned his heart.
Before, finally, he found her lips. Then he was kissing her again. And God, but he felt whole. This was the only time he did. The only fraction of a second where he could forget what he’d lost.
Silence surrounded them. Everyone seemed to have left quickly. So he turned her. Pressed her against a nearby tree.
When he slipped his tongue inside her mouth and rolled it over hers, she moaned. And that sound, that fucking sound…it killed him. But the good kind of death. The one he’d happily give up the rest of his days for.
He ran his hand up her side, slipping beneath her shirt before cupping her breast.
This time she whimpered, and it lit a fire in his gut. He smoothed his palm over the small mound before yanking the cup of her bra aside and finding her nipple.
She moaned and arched.
It never mattered how he touched her, she’d always reacted the same. Like one mere swipe of skin against skin could set her on fire, the same way it did to him.
“Ryan.” Her breathy whisper seeped into his bones.
He was just kissing down her cheek when a rustling noise sounded behind him.
He tensed, quickly pulling her bra back into place before glancing over his shoulder.
“What are you—”
“Someone’s here,” he whispered.
Gently, he turned, covering her body with his own. Without hesitation, he took the Glock from his concealed holster and waited, gaze on the forest around them.
Whoever was there, they couldn’t stay silent for long. Sooner or later—
Another rustle.
Three quick strides and he rounded a tree to their left and grabbed the person.
A woman shrieked as she flew to her feet. “I’m sorry! I…I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me!”
“Faye?” Emily rushed up behind him. “What are you doing?”
“I was walking back and I got lost! I heard people over here, but then you were…well…you know. So I panicked and hid.”
Slowly, he released the woman and holstered his weapon.
Faye blew out a long breath. “Thank God. I really didn’t want to be shot tonight.”
“Come on, let’s get you back.” He led the women back toward the trailers, his attention on Emily the entire time. The crease between her brows. Her silence.
When they reached the trailers, there were still a few other members of cast and crew around, preparing to leave for the night.
Faye spared them a quick glance. “Thanks. Um, sorry again.” She rushed toward her trailer.
Ryan followed Emily. She was already up the steps of her own trailer when he asked, “Can we talk about it?” He wasn’t sure if “it” meant talking about the fight or the kiss. Maybe everything.
“No.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “At least, not now. Not when I’m a step away from passing out.” She opened the door and had just stepped inside…when she suddenly turned. “You really called me the next day?”
“Yes. I needed to know that you were okay. I didn’t realize you were in the hospital. Maybe your mother deleted the call?” It was something the woman would do.
“Did you get any messages from me or my mom?”
“When? The next day?”
“Yeah, and over the next week.”
“None.”
Her frown deepened.
“Why?” He stepped onto the bottom step. “Did you call?” When she remained silent, he climbed the next step. “Emi—”
“I need to get my stuff and get out of here. Thank you for walking me back. I think we can both agree that kiss was just a mistake caused by exhaustion.” Then the door closed with a resounding thud.
Mistake…the word sounded so fucking wrong.
It wasn’t a mistake. But that wasn’t what had him remaining rooted to the spot. It was the other stuff.
Had she called him? Had she texted? Why the hell hadn’t he gotten them? And how different would things be if he had?