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“Then, you can’t be mad at me for being upset!” I yell.
“I’m not mad that you’re upset. I’m mad that you won’t admit it. Or tell me how you feel about anything. Because I don’t know how you feel, especially about me. And I want you to tell me.”
He steps closer again. The top of his shirt is unbuttoned, and his throat bobs when he swallows hard. I can see the line of his muscular chest. I want to reach out and touch him, but I can’t. I’m shaking.
“Tell me, Emerson,” he demands.
Emerson. Not Doe or Em.
I take a breath in and out, and then another.
Impactful moments.
We all have them.
Those seconds that change everything. Those words that you can never take back.
I narrow my eyes in challenge and brace myself for him to run after this confession. “I think I’m in love with you.”
But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t move, other than those gray eyes with specks of blue. They search my face for honesty. The glint in his expression softens. “Well, it’s about damn time you admitted it.”
“All it does is make me feel weak and needy.”
He sighs. “Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak and needy. It makes you real. It’s one of things I’ve always loved most about you—your softness. Your honesty. The way you always see the good in everyone.” His hands grip the sides of my face. “The way you see the good in me. Don’t stop doing that now, Doe. Please don’t stop. And if you were wondering … I’m in love with you too.”
His words hit me right in the center of my chest.
The world keeps moving, but nothing will ever be the same again.
Impactful moments.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SAM
Those six words hover between us, magnifying the electricity pulsing through the air. We’re standing close, so close that I can feel her body heat and smell the sweet, fruity scent of her lotion. My hands are aching to touch her. But I don’t.
Lightning lights up the sky outside of the window. Thunder crashes a few seconds after. Raindrops strike the building as if the clouds just opened. It’s a torrential downpour rather than a slow and steady build. Kind of like the way Emerson came crashing into my life, disrupting everything.
She was jealous tonight, thinking I spent the evening with Alexa even though I barely spoke two words to the woman. I saw it all over her face when I entered the room and felt it behind every word she uttered. And she blamed me for making her feel that way. She must’ve allowed her mind to take her places, creating scenarios that never happened. She reverted me to who I was before knowing her. And I was that guy—I don’t deny it. But I’m not him anymore. I don’t want her to see the old me when she looks at me now, to assume I’m behaving the same way. How can she not notice how gone I am for her? How she trumps any woman in the room and even those who aren’t there?
I keep crowding her, but don’t make a move. The ball is in her court.
She only hesitates for a moment, her eyes searching my face, before her mouth crashes into mine. There’s so much want and need behind it that it overwhelms me for a second. But I recover quickly, deepening the kiss. My hand cradles her head to hold her into place as my other grasps her hip. Our kiss isn’t soft or sweet. It’s rough and claiming. I just don’t know if I’m claiming her or if she’s claiming me.
I back her into the window. The panes are cold against my palms when I brace them next to her head, caging her in. She shivers, that damn shirt sliding even lower on her arm. A silver chain gleams in the overhead lights, catching my attention. I slide a finger along it. Her breath hitches.
She lifts it from her neckline shyly, and the bottom appears from where it was hidden beneath the material of her shirt. Connected to the end of the chain is a silver circle with the ancient picture of a man in the center. Around the circumference are the words Saint Jude Thaddeus, Pray for us.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She takes it from me, her thumb rubbing over the surface reverently. “I saw it in a store on the way home tonight. The one over on the corner of Holland and Riverside. Anyway, I thought of you. So, I bought it.” She slides it overhead and places it in my palm.
I stare at the jewelry in my hand, my past crashing into the present as I remember the way it felt to be called a lost cause. I’m unsure of what this means.
“You remember how they used to call you St. Jude?” she asks softly.
I nod. “Patron saint of lost causes.”
