Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
When I open the door, she’s standing there in a blizzard of porch light, her suitcase clutched like a shield, blonde hair tangled, tear tracks down her cheeks. She’s wearing the same outfit from earlier in the day - a battered university hoodie and the jeans that hug her curvy ass just so, which means she didn’t pack, she evacuated. There’s a second bag, the duffel I bought her for camping, over her other shoulder. Her eyes are so swollen that my heart swoops and then falls.
I get a “Hey,” out before she drops everything and launches at me, all sobs and shivering limbs. The bags thud on the doormat. I catch her, barely, and she clamps on like a drowning swimmer. The momentum nearly bowls me over.
I wrap both arms around her, bury my face in her soft locks, and hold her as tight as I dare. For a minute, there’s nothing but shaking. Her whole body vibrates like she’s hooked to a live wire. My chest is instantly soaked from her tears, but it’s fine. I run one hand up and down her back, muttering “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay,” on a loop until the shivering tapers to just a twitch in her hands.
Her breath is ragged. Eliza doesn’t move, just stays glued to my chest, and I can feel the wild, off-kilter drumbeat of her heart through two layers of fabric. I can feel those big breasts flattened against my hard chest too, but this isn’t the time to mention that fact.
When she finally lifts her face, she’s so sad that my heart squeezes. “Can I stay here?” she manages. “I don’t—there’s nowhere else. I can’t—” Her voice cracks hard, the words jammed in her throat. It would be pathetic if it wasn’t so honest.
“You can stay forever,” I growl, which is apparently all she needs to hear because she sags against me, entire body weight surrendered.
I scoop up her bags in one hand and nudge her inside, bumping the door shut with my hip. The house smells like wood smoke from the fire place, and a rich simmering tomato sauce from dinner earlier. I get Eliza to the living room, deposit the bags, and guide her to the couch.
She resists, veers into my chest again, so I just let her hang there. She’s crying in these weird, noisy spasms—ugly crying, the kind where you can’t breathe and the snot comes faster than the tears. I hold her anyway because this woman means everything to me. Her pain is my pain, so I don’t say much. After years in the service, you learn the value of just shutting up and letting someone lose their shit in peace.
She finally peels away, sniffling, and wipes her face on her sleeve. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I look like a murder victim, I know.”
I crouch down, hands on her knees. “You look perfect, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re here.”
She tries to smile, but it’s crooked, her whole mouth warped by the crying. “I brought my computer, my camera, and, um, my makeup bag. I forgot panties, but I have my charger. Is that weird? That the first thing I checked was my charger?”
“Not at all,” I say. “You want water? Or something stronger? Whiskey?”
Eliza laughs, a horrible sound. “Both?”
I pour her the water, then the whiskey, then sit next to her, waiting for the panic to recede. When she starts to breathe normal again, I get a word in. “I made up the guest room for you,” I say. “Put on fresh sheets and everything, just in case you want some space to yourself tonight. But you can sleep wherever you want. Even in my bed, if you want.”
She gives me a look, raw and grateful. “Thanks,” she whispers. “I want to be with you, Jack. I need you by me, especially now.” With that, she gets up and slowly makes her way upstairs, those curvy hips swaying as we walk down the hallway.
When we reach my bedroom, she stands by the dresser, looking blankly around, like she’s never seen this room before. Of course, that’s not true because I’ve claimed Eliza’s curves multiple times in my bedroom. Morning, noon, and night, on every surface, in fact.
But my girl is exhausted and merely sits on the bed before burying her head in a pillow. She’s silent. Just a small, rounded lump.
I hover in the doorway, unsure. “You need anything?”
She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head into the pillow.
I go to the kitchen, pour another whiskey, then come back. She hasn’t moved. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub her back, slow and firm.
Eventually, she rolls over, eyes pink and puffy. My woman is gorgeous, even in ruins.
“My parents hate me,” she mumbles. “They said I’m dead to them, and they mean it. I’ve never seen my dad so mad. He broke the remote. Like, physically. And my mom—she was crying so hard she couldn’t talk.”