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“Maddison.” Her name on his lips was a growl, deep and rich.
She blinked up at him, shaking her head. “He wasn’t abusive, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not.” He stood then, coming around to her side of the table and looking down at her, so she had no choice but to stare up his torso, towards his handsome face. “Did he hurt you?”
She blinked away, feeling a little as though she was a deer in headlights. “He—it was a bad breakup,” she admitted, wondering why she was withholding the truth from him. Because she was embarrassed? Because she’d never told anyone? She knew it wasn’t her fault. Objectively, academically, she understood that Brock was one hundred percent wrong in this scenario, but it didn’t change the feeling that she’d been a fool to trust him. That she’d laid herself open to his threats by allowing him to take those photos and that video in the first place. By not making sure he’d deleted them.
She’d trusted a total bastard, and he’d always have this over her.
She blinked quickly, searching for words, to explain further, but Rocco was pulling her to her feet, drawing her to him. It was not a warm night, and they both wore thick jumpers, but even through the wool, she felt him. His warmth, his familiar strength, and something clicked into place in her chest. She liked being close to him. And even though she’d sworn she’d never be stupid enough to trust another man, she was allowed to let one make her feel good, wasn’t she? She could just enjoy this, without hoping for, or wanting, more? Without letting her guard down, or, worst of all, letting her heart get in the way?
“You deserve better than that,” he said with confidence, despite not knowing any of the details.
Her lips pulled to one side. Everyone deserved better than someone like Brock, she thought.
“I’m sorry you were hurt.”
It was the last thing she’d expected Rocco to say, but they were the very words she needed to hear, because implicit in his apology was an acknowledgement that he wouldn’t hurt her. An assurance that she could rely on him for that, at least. A promise that she—and this—was safe.
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. No one should hurt you.”
She pulled a face. “You’ve never hurt anyone?”
He frowned. “Not knowingly.”
She lifted a hand, touched his cheek. “How does that work?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been with a heap of women. How do you make sure they don’t want more? How do you stop them from loving you?”
“Do you love me?”
Her eyes widened at the shocking question and her words almost strangled in her throat. So much so that she began to cough, half-choking on the very idea.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he responded, once she’d regained her composure.
“It’s a no,” she promised, as her heart began to thump hard against her ribs. “Definitely not. But then again, you are doing everything you can to destroy the only home I’ve ever known,” she pointed out. “How could I ever love you?”
His eyes skimmed her face and this time, there was no hint of triumph in them, no look of satisfaction. If anything, there was a hint of concern, and regret. “It really means that much to you, doesn’t it?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
His frown deepened. “Yes.”
“But maybe you’re right,” she said with a small shrug, unaware of the vulnerability on her features. “Maybe keeping the house isn’t right for Jack. Especially not with the mega precinct you’re going to build around him.”
Rocco reached down and clasped his hands low behind her back, holding her close to him. Though no music played, their bodies swayed a little in the moonlit night, as though they were listening to their own symphony, their own rhythm and beat, their own melody lilting in the air.
“Maybe the change will even be good for me,” she said, after a moment of silence. “I have spent my entire adult life living in the same home I grew up in. At least this will force me to go, be somewhere else.”
“Where will that be?”
She shook her head, sadly. “I don’t know.” There was wistfulness in her tone though, a wistfulness that spoke of her innate fear of being uprooted—again. It was a fear that defined her, that made her who she was—it had informed every single choice she’d made, for as long as she’d been able to make choices.
“When I was a girl,” she said, softly, surprising herself with each word, because she never spoke about her childhood—not even with Brock—and she certainly hadn’t planned to with Rocco. But there was something about him, this night, the way they were together, that had her opening up to him in a way that was surprising—and a little thrilling. “We moved around a lot. My mom struggled. She drank, too, but not like a glass of wine with dinner. She drank, a lot. She tried to hold it together, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t keep a job, a home. We lived in her car for a couple of months,” Maddie continued.
