Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I scream, startled, when a piercing, shrieking sound tears me out of my thoughts. My whole body jolts. For a split second, I think it’s him—that somehow, he’s found a way to follow me, to catch up to me. But then I realize it’s just my phone.
It’s just my phone.
I blow out an unsteady breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My hand trembles as I glance over at the passenger seat, where the phone is buzzing violently. Shephard’s name flashes across the screen, and a fresh wave of tears stings my eyes. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have done something so terrible to a man who has been nothing but good to me?
I grab the phone, wiping at my eyes with the back of my other hand. I answer it, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to swallow the emotion that’s threatening to break through. “Hey,” I say, but my voice cracks, caught somewhere between a whisper and a scream.
“You okay?” Shephard asks, his voice filled with concern. The tenderness in his tone cuts through me like a knife, making it that much harder to keep it together.
I take a deep breath, forcing down the sob that’s building in my throat. “Yes. Yeah.” My voice sounds brittle, like it could shatter at any moment. “I just—I’m not feeling well, so I’m on my way home early.” The lie slips out so easily, but it feels like a betrayal. Another layer of deception to pile onto everything else I’ve done.
“Oh. Okay.” There’s a slight pause, and I can hear the disappointment in his voice, but it’s masked by his concern for me. “I’ll tell the girls. They’ll be happy, but I’m sorry you’re sick. Want me to make you some soup?”
Another tear spills down my cheek when he says that. How could I have done something so terrible to a man like him? A man who is willing to drop everything just to make me soup when I’m “sick.” I don’t deserve his kindness. I don’t deserve him. I suddenly crave the boring. I want complacency. I’ll happily take the mundane over whatever this shit is I’m living through right now.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Soup would be nice. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“Be careful,” he says, his tone gentle, filled with love and concern.
“I will.” I take a shaky breath, wiping at my tears again. “I love you, Shephard.”
“I love you too,” he replies softly, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
I hang up the phone, but the tears don’t cease. When I come to a stop sign, I glance around, making sure there are no cars behind me. The road is empty. The world outside is quiet, peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I unlock my phone screen. My fingers move quickly as I pull up Saint’s contact.
Without hesitation, I block his number.
I let out a long, shaky breath, staring at the screen. It feels like a small act of defiance, a tiny step toward reclaiming control of my life. But it’s not enough. Blocking his number doesn’t erase what happened, doesn’t erase the fear that he could show up again. I can only hope that cutting him off like this will be the end of him. It has to be.
I pray that whatever this was, whatever game he was playing, it’s over now.
I’ve always known to be afraid of the obvious things like lions and bears, because those are things that present as dangerous. What I’m just now realizing is that I should have been more afraid of the things that have the capability of pretending they’re not dangerous.
Please, let him be finished with me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Finished,” Shephard says. He closes the book and drops it between us with a thud that sounds like a gavel banging in the quiet room.
We’re both lying in bed, and I’ve been pretending to focus on my laptop like I’m scrolling through emails, but I’ve been staring blankly at the screen in front of me. I haven’t processed a single thing for the last hour. I’ve been hyperaware of every page Shephard turned, every breath he took, as he made his way toward the last page of my latest book. The book I pray he never finds out was inspired by actual events.
There’s always a certain strain in the air when Shephard reads my work—especially now, after everything that’s happened. I want him to love what I create, but with this one, I just don’t want him to see through me.
Shephard enjoys reading the actual book rather than an early manuscript. He loves feeling the weight of it in his hands. He has a metal bookmark he uses just for my novels.