Page 35 of Ransom

I just stare at him, letting my non-answer be answer enough.

"Blair," he says softly, running his hand down the front of his suit. "I didn't come here to disturb your life, I swear. But you're being shortsighted. If you'd just listen to?—"

"No. You don't get my time or any more of my attention. Goodnight." I turn and head back to the truck.

There's a shocked bark of laughter. "You've got to be kidding me. My car's in the fucking ditch. You're not even going to pull me out?"

Turning back, I pin him with every bit of hate I hold in my heart. There's a lot there, and it's easier to access than those uncomfortable, painful feelings I live with. "I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire."

Finally, I get a reaction. It's a small flinch, but it makes me feel a little better.

Ransom takes a step towards me, then seems to think better of it. "Blair, I know you're angry. You have every right to be. But I made a promise to your father?—"

"Don't," I cut him off, my voice sharp. "Don't you dare bring my dad into this."

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Look, can we just... can we talk? Really talk?"

I want to say no. I want to get back in my truck and drive away, leaving him and all the complicated feelings he brings with him in my rearview mirror. But something in his eyes, a vulnerability I've rarely seen, makes me hesitate.

For a second.

Then I come to my senses.

"There's not a damn thing left to say. You were clear twenty-five years ago that you were done with this town and done with me. I believe the exact words you used were, 'I deserve more from life than you and this bumfuck town.'"

Another, bigger flinch. I don't know why. He's the one that said them. Why is he acting like he's actually hurt?

"I'm sorry I hurt you. It was the only—" Ransom runs his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture I remember all too well. His shoulders slump as he takes a half-step toward me, and I automatically tighten my grip on my wrench. Am I going to beat him to death with it?

Probably not.

He freezes, glancing at my hand, then looks back at my face. "Just, I'm sorry." His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and I can see the muscle working in his jaw.

For years, I dreamed of him coming back and apologizing, taking back the hurtful things he said. I thought it would make everything better.

It doesn't. It's been too long. The pain's burrowed too deep into my bones for simple words to shake it loose.

But the words, too little, too late, do shake something else loose. Something hot and overpowering.

Rage.

13

RANSOM

My heart pounds like a jackhammer, and I can't blame it on the near miss with that damn cow anymore. I had it all worked out. I was going to knock on the door of the apartment over the shop. I had a whole fucking speech prepared. I was going to be fully in control.

And now I can barely fucking speak. She's covered in mud, wielding a wrench like it's an extension of her arm, ready to beat me senseless. And all I want to do is fall at her feet and spend the rest of my life making it up to her.

Time is a funny thing. For some people, time is an enemy, one that brings pain and loss; one that makes your bones ache and your skin sag.

For other people, for the lucky ones, time is a gift.

Blair is one of those people. She was beautiful at seventeen. At forty-three, she's stunning, radiating a confidence and raw power that makes her magnetic.

And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that coming here is the second biggest mistake of my life.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. It was the only—” I cut myself off, knowing that no explanation can mend what I've broken. "I'm sorry," I repeat, the words feeling pathetically inadequate.

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