Page 30 of The Billionaire's Angel

I tried to tell myself to turn around and go back to my room. I didn't listen. I didn't want to go back to my lonely room and stare at the ceiling until the sun rose. I wanted to be here, with Gage. I wanted—I cut that thought off before I could finish it. I wasn't in a position to want anything withGage.

For so long I'd had a single focus in life. First, it was to get through college and nursing school so I could get a job and support myself. Then it was surviving marriage to Anthony. Then I was free, and my life was all about finding work and movingforward.

Until the day Gage came home to Winters House. From the moment we'd met my focus had split. A part of me still thought my job and my future should be my most important priority. That part of me was practical. Sensible. Before Gage, I’d never wanted anything more thansecurity.

Now there was a new Sophie. The Sophie that had kissed Gage in the kitchen. The Sophie who wanted to curl up next to him on that couch, take a long sip of his whiskey, and kiss him again. That Sophie didn't give a crap about her job or security. That Sophie was tired of sleepless nights and bad dreams and feeling like she was deadinside.

The new Sophie wanted to bealive.

She wanted todream.

She wanted towant.

I hovered there, one step into the room, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, and watched Gage lift the glass to his lips. He took a slow, long sip of the whiskey. Sensible Sophie yelled at me as my feet carried me across the room. I ignoredher.

Gage’s eyes flared as I moved to the opposite side of the couch and sat, tucking my feet beneath me and leaning against the arm. With Gage sprawled against the opposite arm, a good three feet separatedus.

Leaning forward, he filled a second glass with a small splash of whiskey and handed it to me. I took it, thrilling more than I should have when his fingers stroked the back of my hand beforewithdrawing.

I took a sip of the whiskey and coughed. I didn't like whiskey. The sour fire of it burned my throat. I didn't really like alcohol in general, but if I was going to stay up half the night drinking, whiskey would never be my firstchoice.

I wasn't here for the whiskey. I was here forGage.

Chapter Twelve

Sophie

Deciding not to play games,I said, “Mrs. W told me why Aiden left. Told me what today is. I'msorry.”

Gage’s eyes dropped to the whiskey in his hand. He swirled the glass and took a sip. “This is the first year I've been home on the anniversary since ithappened.”

“Was it easier? Being away?” Iasked.

“I would've told you no. But now that I'm here? Yeah, being away was easier. I found them right here, you know.” He gestured to the Persian rug with his whiskey glass. “Right there on therug.”

“You were home?” Iasked.

I don't know why I thought no one was home when Hugh and Olivia Winters were murdered. I didn't know much about the crime. I hadn't lived in the area when it had happened, and it felt creepy to spy on my new employers by reading all the mediacoverage.

A simple web search had uncovered pages of headlines, click bait and trashy. I hadn't read a single one. Seeing the haunted guilt in Gage’s blue eyes, I was glad Ihadn't.

“I was home,” he said in a distant voice. “I was here the whole time, and I didn't save them. Just walked in and found them laying on the floor. Exactly the same way my parents died. Almost the same position on the rug. Same room. Differenthouse.”

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know a lot about the Winters’ tragic history, but I did know Gage’s parents had died when he was a child, in their own home a quarter-mile away. And I'd known those deaths had been called a murder/suicide by the police, just like Hugh and Olivia Winters’ murders hadbeen.

The headlines I'd seen had fed on that angle, but Gage hadn't said, “I didn't stop them.” He’d said, “I didn't savethem.”

I turned the problem over in my mind, wanting to ask what he meant and afraid to make it all worse. Had they been murdered and he'd been home? It suddenly occurred to me how narrowly the teenage Gage might have escaped being killedhimself.

I watched him drain half the whiskey in his glass, tipping his head back as it ran down his throat and staring at the ceiling, shrouded in the darkness of the room. The flickering light of the fire gilded his skin, turning his tan to gold and setting flames into his blueeyes.

He was almost impossibly beautiful in his own rugged way. When my eyes caught on the curve of his lower lip, I looked away and took my own long sip of whiskey, fighting back the urge to cough and choke as it burned its way to mystomach.

I expected Gage to say something else about his aunt and uncle, the anniversary, but his next words almost sent me fleeing theroom.

“You were married,” he said, flatly. “What happened with yourhusband?”

I took another sip of the whiskey to cover my reluctance to answer. I never talked about my marriage. With anyone. I’d only told Amelia alittle.