Page 273 of Unexpected Heroine

What the hell kind of question is that?

Since I can’t see his face, his flat tone is even harder to read than normal.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to talk.”

His shoulders curve forward farther, sculpted by the weight of his insecurity. “Guess I figured you’d want me to leave.”

“Turn around and look at me.” Thanks to my mounting frustration my request came out like an order, so I tenderly tack on my manners. “Please, babe. I want to see you.”

It takes longer than I expect, but he finally complies. When our eyes meet, there’s an ocean of sadness behind his blue-green irises.

My heart threatens to split down the middle. Heaven forbid I do kick him out, he can take one half of it with him. I’d give him the whole thing, but if I’m ever going to live or love again, I’ll need it.

I struggle for what to say, but he saves me, speaking first. “You were right. I was manipulating you with sex. And I’m sorry. I didn’t set out to do that, but it ended up that way. I apologize. You deserve better than me.”

There he goes again with the self-loathing.

My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding to the point of pain. “Don’t start the woe is me shit again.”

A familiar expression tugs at his features, sagging the skin at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I don’t... I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s true. You fucking deserve better than me. Yet I’m too damn weak to walk away from you. The only way I can go is if you order me away. Tell me to go. Tell me to leave, and I’ll obey. I can do that. Just not on my own.”

When he’s done referring to himself as nothing better than a dog chained to an old oak tree, he turns away from me.

The crack in my heart deepens at the image I’ve just painted. Of him, seeing himself as no better than a dog that nobody has ever wanted.

Except I do want him. So does my father. Unfortunately, Tomer hates himself too much to let us love him properly.

Dread and sadness blend inside my stomach, the vortex tugging my heart downward.

Earlier, I was wrong thinking there was no greater torture than loving and hating someone in equal measure. Turns out, there’s something worse.

Loving a man who doesn’t love himself. Never has and possibly never will.

So how could he ever love me in return?

I wonder if the way he feels about himself is related to...

“Why didn’t you really tell me your name?” I ask, testing my hunch. “What were you protecting with that lie?”

He doesn’t answer.

As the seconds pass, his silence becomes deafening.

The truth is, he gained nothing by keeping his name from me.

Getting out of bed, I look around for my clothes, quickly abandoning the search. In a rush, I throw on a shirt and shorts from my dresser and pad around the bed.

Hefting over a chair, I sit right in front of him. He’s gonna look me in my face and tell me the truth, come hell or high water.

“Why the name, huh?” I press again. “We never fully discussed it, and I deserve to know.”

Looking back, I didn’t demand the reason sooner because this lie didn’t matter to me as much in the context of everything else. To be clear, it still mattered. But there were bigger fish to fry.

Well, now all the fish are cooked, except this one. It’s raw and beginning to smell foul.

Not giving up, I try again to get him talking. “As much as I hate your lies about my father and your job, at least I can follow your thought process. You believed you were protecting him.” Tsking my lips, I shake my head. “Your name? That doesn’t make sense to me. You could have kept your other secrets without letting me call you James for a dang year. Why? What did you gain?”

“I don’t know,” he finally answers, his eyes struggling to hold my insistent stare. “When we met, my club alias came out. It just fucking came out. Then it was too late to take it back.”

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