Page 167 of Ransom

I deflate, shoulders slumping. "I'm not bothered." His side eye annoys me all over again. I like annoyance. It feels better than fear, or worry, or hope. "You're changing your whole life. And what if—" My voice cracks. I press my palms against myeyes, trying to hold back the flood of emotions. "What if you wake up one day and realize this was all a mistake? That you gave up everything for... for what? For a small-town mechanic who can barely handle a night out in the city?"

"Blair—"

"No, let me finish." I drop my hands, pacing between the cars again. "What if we don't fit anymore? We're not those kids making out in fields and sharing dreams anymore. You run this massive company, and I... I fix cars and take care of Max and?—"

"And you're exactly who you want to be." Ransom's voice is firm.

"Am I?" I spin to face him. "Because right now I don't know what I want. Every time I look at you, I feel seventeen again. But I'm not seventeen. And neither are you. And what if we try this and it breaks everything? What if we can't go back to who we were before?"

"Maybe we're not supposed to go back." He takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand.

"You can't just set up an office in Mrs. Winston's B&B and pretend everything's going to work out. Life isn't that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because!" I throw my hands up. "Because people don't do that! They don't just upend their whole lives for... for..."

"For love?"

The word hangs between us, heavy with twenty-five years of history and hurt and hope.

"Don't." My voice comes out as a whisper. "Don't say that unless you mean it."

"I've meant it every time I said it. Every fucking time."

That's the part that's terrifying. Because I want it. So much. And yet I can't stop questioning it. I should shut up. Just accept that he's here and jump in with both feet. But my fucking sense of self-preservation won't let me.

"Don't run from this." Ransom's voice drops low, dangerous. He pushes off the workbench, his movements deliberate, calculated.

I back up instinctively. "I'm not running."

"Yeah? Looks like running to me." Each step brings him closer. My heart pounds against my ribs as I retreat, the garage suddenly feeling much smaller.

"I'm being practical." My voice wavers. "Someone has to be."

"Practical?" He prowls forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Was sending a four hundred-pound stripper to my office practical?"

My back hits metal - the hood of Mr. Johnson's Buick. Nowhere left to go.

"That was different. You weren't listening?—"

"No." He plants his hands on either side of me, caging me in. His face inches from mine, close enough I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "That was you sending me an invitation. You fucking called me here."

"I never—" The words catch in my throat as his nose brushes mine.

"Twenty-five years." His breath fans across my lips. "Twenty-five fucking years I've measured every woman against you. And they all came up short. You know why?"

I shake my head, barely breathing, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged thing trying to break free.

"Because they weren't you. Simple as that." His voice roughens, scraping low and raw against my senses. "I've waited my whole life to get back to you. And now you think I'm going to change my mind? That anything could make me walk away again?"

Something breaks loose in my chest—a wall I've kept standing for decades. The careful fortress of logic and reasonI built to protect myself from this exact moment crumbles like sand. "You mean it."

"Every fucking word."

And for the first time since he crashed back into my life, I let myself believe him. Really believe him. All the way believe him.

The truth of it settles into my bones, rearranging everything I thought I knew. All these years, I'd convinced myself he'd left because I wasn't enough—not normal enough, wasn't woman enough. But looking into his eyes now, I see what I couldn't before: I was always enough. I was everything.

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