Page 97 of A Million To Fall

And while a huge part of me is relieved, another part keeps coming back to it like a tongue probing a canker sore.

All morning I ruminated, taking a not-so-little guilt trip while walking the aisles at the grocery store, skin tingling when I grabbed a carton of organic eggs. There was his confession about volunteering to read Dr. Seuss books to first graders because he knew I’d be there—the way he looked at me when he said it. That near-magnetic pull toward him just before Boston stopped us from making a huge mistake.

I feel like I’ve wandered off a carefully illustrated map of my life. For as long as I can remember, my future has looked the same: Good education. Good family. I’ve been nothing if not diligent in that pursuit, in living up to the expectations.

And now?

Boston opens the passenger door for me, his soft-lipped smile tugging at my insides. I slide into the seat, taking a deep inhale of the warm, masculine scent that lingers in his car. It really should be illegal to smell this good.

I don’t know what I expected to find in a car someone actually lives out of, but it sure wasn’t this. There’s not a crumb to be found, not one piece of trash. Not even a half-empty coffee or soda in the cup-holder.

My car’s a disaster most of the time. Chapstick, iced coffee cups, paper receipts, random pens strewn about. I even lug around spare outfits, just in case I want more comfortable shoes or stain a shirt or get cold.

“How was your morning?” I ask once Boston maneuvers us down the street.

“Nothing spectacular.”

“What did you do?” I ask, cautious not to push. Archer hates when I ask too many questions, when I dig too deep. I’ve learned to edit myself.

“Just errands,” Boston says with a small shrug. “You?”

“Took a bath.”

He glances at me briefly, his expression shifting, but he smooths it away so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.

Almost.

Heat blooms low in my stomach.

Interesting.

“Stormy…” he starts, and the playful mood dissipates.

I look at his profile while Boston focuses on the road, both hands locked on the steering wheel. “I need to say something.”

There’s that horrible sensation of the floor dropping out from underneath me again. “Okay?”

He exhales a long breath. “Last night…”

His words just hang there, making me squirm.

“I got caught up in…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The moment, I guess.” His grip tightens slightly. “I should’ve handled that better.”

I open my mouth, ready to respond, but he keeps going.

“All you wanted was someone to sit with you so you didn't have to be alone. And I don't want you to think I showed up expecting anything else.”

My brow creases. “Boss—”

“I’m serious.” His voice softens. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you owe me something because I stayed.”

“I don’t,” I burst out.

He nods, but his expression doesn’t lighten. “But I did mean what I said last night.”

“About Archer?”

“He left you.” Boston doesn’t sound angry. He sounds sad. Almost confused. “He knew about what happened to you. He knew you’d be scared. And he left you.”