Chapter Two
Lachlan
The rhythm of the impact echoes through the apartment. Fist to bag. Breath out. Reset. Again.
The worn leather swings back, and I meet it halfway, muscles tightening, knuckles slamming into the surface with controlled force. Sweat slides down my spine and soaks into the waistband of my sweatpants. My tank is damp, sticking to me, but I don’t slow down.
I don’t stop. Pain helps. Focus helps. It’s the only way to shut everything else out.
Four years of doing this in a room half the size, and it worked every time.
Or at least it used to. My fist connects again, harder this time, the chain above rattling sharply as the bag jerks back.
My breathing is steady, but my mind won’t cooperate.
Not today. Not after yesterday.
“Tatum.”
Her name slips out without permission, cutting straight through the rhythm I’ve built. I hit the bag again, faster now, like I can beat the thought out of my head. Doesn’t work. All I see is her standing in my doorway. Smaller than I remembered, but not in the same way. Not fragile. Not breakable.
Stronger. Older.
Those big brown eyes locked on mine like she wasn’t afraid of me anymore. I exhale sharply and step back, dragging a hand over my face.
Focus.
I force myself back into position, lifting my fists again. One. Two. Three. But it’s already gone. The edge. The clarity. She took it with her the moment she walked out that door.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it at first, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the tension loose. It buzzes again.
I swear under my breath and cross the room, grabbing it with more force than necessary. “Yeah.”
“Lachlan.” Greg. Of course.
I lean against the counter, jaw tightening. “What?”
There’s a pause on the other end, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I owe you an apology.”
My eyes narrow slightly.
“Tatum came to see you, didn’t she?” he continues.
I stay silent. That’s all the confirmation he needs.
“She showed up at my office a few days ago,” Greg admits. “Wouldn’t leave. Wouldn’t stop asking. I told her no more than once, but she…” He exhales. “She’s persistent.”
That’s one word for it.
“She wore me down,” he finishes. “I shouldn’t have given her your address, but she made it clear she wasn’t going to stop until she found you.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, tension settling deep in my shoulders. Yeah. That sounds like her.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say finally.
“It does,” Greg replies. “I crossed a line. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”
I let the silence sit for a second before answering. “I get it.”
And I do. Because if she wants something, she doesn’t stop.
“Alright,” he says, relief creeping into his tone. “If anything else comes up…”
“It won’t.”
He exhales. Then, “Take care of yourself, Lachlan.” The line goes dead.
I drop the phone back onto the counter and push away from it, pacing once across the apartment before stopping in the middle of the room. My workout’s over. Not because I’m tired. But because it’s pointless now.
Somewhere below me, the coin laundry kicks on and rattles through the pipes. I picked this building because the man who runs it read my record, handed me a key, and didn’t ask a single question. Everybody here is carrying something. Nobody makes it anybody else’s business. That was the whole point.
My head tilts back slightly as I stare at the ceiling. Four years without seeing her, without letting myself think about anything tied to that life. And she walks in like nothing changed. Like I didn’t make damn sure she stayed as far away from me as possible.
A rough breath leaves me as I drag both hands down my face.
I’m not pissed that she came. That’s the problem.
I close my eyes briefly, and she’s there again.
Honey-blond hair falling around her face, softer than I remember. Those wide brown eyes that always gave her away no matter how quiet she tried to be. Full lips parted like she had something to say but wasn’t sure how to say it.
My body tenses. Because I noticed. Immediately. The way her body moved when she stepped inside. The way her clothes fit differently now, curves where there weren’t any before. The way she looked at me, like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
Heat flashes low in my gut, hard and immediate, and my cock jerks. I swear under my breath and turn away, running a hand through my hair.
No.
Absolutely not.
That’s not happening. Not ever. The guilt hits just as fast as the thought did, crushing it instantly. Tyler. Something heavy settles behind my ribs. Her brother. My best friend. Dead. Because of me.
The memory comes back in fragments. Not the crash. That part’s gone, and I’ve stopped digging for it. Just the feeling before it. The shift in the car when something didn’t sit right. I swallow hard, pushing the thought down where it belongs.
I pleaded guilty. Didn’t fight the charge. Didn’t argue. Didn’t question it. Because what was the point? He was still dead. And I was the one behind the wheel.
The knock comes out of nowhere. I freeze for half a second, my body already reacting before my mind catches up. No one comes here. No one knows where I live except Greg…and now Tatum.
My jaw tightens as I cross the apartment in a few long strides and yank the door open.
“Tatum…” Her name catches in my throat.
She’s standing there, half-hidden behind an oversized grocery bag that looks like it weighs more than she does.
One arm is hooked through the handle of a large purse slipping down her shoulder.
I can barely see her face around the edge of the bag.
Just a glimpse of those wide brown eyes and flushed cheeks as she shifts her weight.
Before I can say anything or even process what I’m looking at, she steps forward. Instinct takes over, and I get out of the way. She walks right past me like she belongs here. As if showing up unannounced after four years and pushing her way into my apartment is something people just do.
I shut the door slowly, raking a hand through my hair before turning back to her. She’s already halfway to the kitchen, struggling slightly under the weight of the bag.
“What are you doing?” I demand, my voice rougher than I intended as I quickly take the huge bag off her hands and set it on the counter.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she sets her purse beside the grocery bag with a small huff, pushing a strand of hair out of her face before turning to look at me, smiling. Soft, yet determined.
“I wanted to see you,” she says simply.
“Why?” I snap. “You don’t just show up here. I told you to stay away.”
She ignores that completely. Instead, she starts unpacking the bag. Groceries. Vegetables. Meat. Spices. Things that don’t belong in this apartment.
“I noticed your place was kind of…empty,” she says, pulling items out one after the other like she’s done this a hundred times before. “And there were takeout bags everywhere, so I figured you’re not eating properly.”
I stare at her. She keeps going.
“So I decided I’m going to cook for you,” she finishes, glancing up at me like she’s expecting an argument.
I don’t give her one. I don’t know why.
Four years of making sure this girl was fed and housed and her college paid for, and I did every bit of it through a lawyer so she’d never have to look at me.
Now she’s standing in my kitchen putting food away in my cabinets like she’s been doing it her whole life.
Something in me wants to take the bag out of her hands and tell her to sit down.
To be the one who does this. The wanting is so immediate and so total that it makes my back teeth ache.
I don’t move.
I just stand there, watching her move around my kitchen like she’s always been here.
Like she fits here. My gaze drifts on its own.
Her outfit is simple. Jeans that hug her hips and thighs.
A soft top that clings just enough to show the curve of her waist, the gentle rise of her chest. Nothing revealing.
But it doesn’t matter. Because I notice everything. The way she moves. The way her body bends and shifts as she reaches for things. The way her hair falls forward when she leans down, catching the light. I dig my thumb into my palm until the ache cuts through the desire.
She’s grown. That I’m fully aware. Not just physically. There’s confidence there now. A quiet kind, but it’s real. It’s in the way she stands her ground, in the way she doesn’t look away from me unless she chooses to.
And when our eyes meet, she does look away. A soft blush spreads across her cheeks, her lashes lowering just slightly. My chest goes tight, and lower than that, my body answers before I’ve decided anything. I drag my gaze away, but it doesn’t help.
The air in the apartment feels different now. Thicker. Warmer. Every movement, every small sound she makes, sends heat straight to my cock.
We eat in silence at first. Or at least, I do. She talks. About small things. About nothing. Filling the space like she’s trying to make up for the years we lost. I answer when I have to in short, clipped responses that don’t give her much to work with.
But she doesn’t stop. Slowly, without me meaning to, I start responding more. A word here. A sentence there. My voice becomes less sharp, less defensive. It’s…easy. Too easy. That’s the problem.
Afterward, she stands, gathering the plates like it’s expected.
“We should do the dishes,” she says, already moving toward the sink.
We.
The word sits wrong and right at the same time. I follow anyway. Because I don’t know how not to. The space between us narrows as we work, shoulders brushing occasionally, hands moving too close. The sound of running water fills the silence, but it doesn’t cover the tension building underneath it.
Then, her fingers touch mine. It’s accidental. Or maybe it’s not. Either way, everything stops. I look down. Then up. Her eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain, but there’s something else there too. Something warmer. Braver.
The air shifts. Neither of us moves.
Then I do.
I have her face in my hands before I’ve decided to, tilting her chin up, and I kiss her.
She makes a small sound against my mouth and I feel it everywhere.
Heat slams into me, sharp and total, something primal snapping awake.
My hand finds her waist, and she comes up onto her toes, soft and warm and giving, and for one second I let myself have it.
Her mouth. Her taste. The way she goes pliant under my hands like she’s been waiting four years for someone to touch her like this.
Wrong.
Reality crashes in. I pull back sharply, stepping away like I’ve been burned.
“That doesn’t happen again,” I say, and it comes out wrong. Rough, edged with everything I’m trying to shove back down.
Her expression falters, confusion flickering across her face. “I—”
“Is that what this was?” I cut in, the bitterness arriving before I can stop it. “Show up here, play house, cook for me. Is that what you came for?”
Her eyes widen, hurt flashing across her face instantly. “What? No…that’s not—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
“You kissed me.” Her voice is shaking now, frustration rising to meet mine. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”
And she’s right, and I know she’s right, and I keep going anyway.
“Fine,” I say bluntly. “I kissed you. It doesn’t mean anything. I just got out of prison,” I add, my tone colder now. “You think you’re the only woman I’d react to like that?”
The silence afterward is total.
Then her lips part slightly, her eyes glassy now, the hurt no longer hidden. “Wow,” she whispers.
The sound cuts deeper than anything she could’ve shouted.
“I didn’t realize that’s what you thought of me.”
I don’t respond. Because if I do, I’ll take it back. And I can’t.
She grabs her bag quickly, movements sharper now, less controlled. “I shouldn’t have come,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
Then she’s at the door. Gone.
The apartment falls silent again. I stand there, staring at the door long after it closes, my chest heavier than before. The words I threw at her echo in my head.
Too harsh. Too far. I know it. But it doesn’t change anything.
Because the truth is worse. I shouldn’t want her.
I shouldn’t think about her the way I do.
I shouldn’t remember the way she felt against me, the softness of her lips, the way my body reacted like it’s been starved for something I can’t have.
Tyler.
The name settles heavy in my chest. Because of him, Tatum is off-limits. Always has been. Always will be. But that doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t stop the way something inside me shifted the second I tasted her. The way it settled deep, refusing to move.
She’s in my head now. Under my skin. No matter how much I push, she’s not going anywhere.
The worst part?
I’m not sure I want her to.