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Belle lets out a breath. “I’m afraid it might make things worse if we’re both hopped up on caffeine.”
“Tell you what,” I say, “you tell me why you’re here, other than to soak in my presence, and I’ll tell you how things went with Savage.” Now that I’m used to calling him Carter, it’s strange to say Savage out loud.
“You’re not going to like it,” Belle says.
“Try me.”
“Well,” she says, “you know that jackass rugby player I have to babysit and keep out of trouble?”
“Sure?”
“It’s your brother, Leo.”
Thirty-Two
SAVAGE
The house is too quiet with Hannah gone.
And it still smells like her floral perfume. It’s driving me crazy, because all I can fucking think about is her, what we discussed, how badly I want to go over there and talk to her.
It took everything in me not to follow her into Heatstroke. She’s not technically in danger any more, but I can’t shake the feeling that something might be wrong. Either I’m paranoid because of my past, or there’s an active threat.
You need to get your shit together.
I stand on the front porch of my house, staring into space. It’s quiet out here, idyllic, and I’ve always needed this separation from the town, even though it’s not exactly a bustling hub of activity. During tourist season, the ranch is a haven. Shit, it’s a haven all year round.
But now?
Empty.
Empty.
Hannah is gone.
I walk back into the house and shut my front door. I grab my laptop and sit down on the sofa where Hannah crawled into my lap. She’s everywhere now, and there’s no going back to the way things were. Fuck, I’m going to see her later, and I still feel like I’ve lost something.
I’m going to have to come to terms with this real fucking quick, because she’s gone in six weeks. I’m not going to stop her.
She sent me a text a little while ago, but I can’t help opening my laptop and checking the feed from the camera I placed outside her front door. When Cash asked me to be her bodyguard, I took it seriously.
Cars pass by in the street, and it seems peaceful, but my shoulders are tense regardless.
I rewind the video feed from earlier and watch as she comes up the grated stairs with her friend, Belle. They’re chatting excitedly. Or rather, her friend is chatting, and Hannah is wearing an adorable smile.
I grab my phone to text her, but hesitate.
She’s with her friend, and I don’t want to come on too strong.
What the fuck are you talking about? This is just sex. Sex that might bring an end to one of the only friendships I have left, but I won’t be able to quit Hannah.
Instead of texting her, I bring up a new browser tab on my laptop and do a quick search for therapists in and around the area. There’s one in Heatstroke, but I hesitate to click the link.
I haven’t gone to therapy since I arrived in Heatstroke. I prefer to ignore my problems until they go away, or attack them with rage. Neither of those options are healthy, but filling in the contact form will mean coming face-to-face with a stranger and talking about things I’d rather leave locked away.
The bracelet is in my palm again, and I run my finger over the cool silver links. What am I doing this for? Anyone? Who am I doing it for?
Hannah isn’t my woman. I can’t be what she wants.
