Page 92 of When We Met

I blink rapidly, trying to understand what he’s saying. “You want me to stay?”

“I… don’t know what I want,” he admits. “I don’t even know how to comprehend the last hour, but if you leave them, I know it will crush them. So don’t go. Stay. And then we can talk about it after Christmas.”

Tears slide down my cheeks. His armor weakens, and he shifts his stance closer. He chews on his words before he shakes his head. “Don’t cry.” He whispers the words as if the idea of me crying pains him.

“I feel like a complete fucking asshole.” I sob into my hands.

“You kinda are one.” He snorts but then laughs, the sound forced.

I drop my hands and stare at him. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

“I did.” He brings the bottle of Southern Comfort to my lips. “This might help.”

I take the bottle, throw back a few shots and then stare at him. He’s right. It does help. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I can go. I would understand if you never want to see me again.”

He touches me, his hand against my cheek. “You know what pissed me off more than anything about her being here?”

I’m dying to know what they talked about, but I figured it was between them. I also can’t ignore the protective stance he took when the girls were near Tara. He stood directly in front of them.

“Her seeing the girls?”

“That.” He nods, running his hand through his hair. “But her acting like you weren’t good enough.”

My lips tremble because, for the first time in my life, someone pierced through my façade. The girl who’s always up for a good time, the life of the party, and quick to make fun of herself does it because it’s the only way. I don’t want to infect anyone with my sadness I bury deep inside. I hide behind humor because somewhere along the way I was told over and over again, you’re not enough, Kacy. Not skinny enough. Lips aren’t perfect. Hair too thin. Body too curvy. Teeth too crooked. All things my mother criticized me for. I wished my voice would have been louder than she was.

My breath catches when he stares at me. Waiting. My pulse quickens, my cheeks flush, and I instinctively look downward, unable to hold his eyes. He’s known me a month, not even, and already knows more about me than most of my family.

Barron lifts my chin up, and a sickening feeling stirs inside me. “You are enough,” he assures me. “Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fucking idiot.” Before I can comprehend his statement, his lips press to mine. Once.

“I’m sorry,” I rush to say, again, because I think it’s needed, but I also don’t pull away from him. I’m eager for assurance. Still. Always.

He shakes his head, cradling my face in his hands. “Don’t say that anymore.” There’s still a hint of anger in his tone, and I’m not sure if it’s because of me or her, but regardless, I keep my apology to myself.

He drops his hands and I can feel the tension rolling off him. I want to comfort him because fuck, his wife just showed up out of the blue, and I know he’s dealing with some shit. Not just what’s going on between us. “What did she say?”

“She wanted me to sign the divorce papers.”

“Why haven’t you?”

He sighs heavily and it’s not one of relief. “Because she wanted joint custody of the girls and there was no way in hell I’m letting that cunt have anything to do with my kids.” He draws in another breath. “Did you know about them?”

“I did, only because she told me she had kids with a guy in Texas. It was about year later that she had me send you the divorce papers. She had me sign a non-disclosure agreement that I wouldn’t say she had children.”

When I meet his gaze head-on, I realize what Tara showing up did to him. Narrowed eyes, quick breaths, and oh so fucking hot. Barron pissed off might just be hotter than him saying that “ma’am” shit.

Suddenly, again, my face is in his hands, eyes frantic, roaming over my face as if he’s searching for an answer. His thumb brushes lightly across my cheekbones, his hold equal parts protective and assuring. Closing his eyes, he exhales. That’s when it hits me. He’s hurting, but I don’t know what the hell to do about it because even though this has to do with me, there are wounds Tara dug deep in there. Ones I think he tried really hard to ignore.

“Kacy,” he says in a pained whisper. He leans in, angling my head to kiss my neck as his other hand grips my waist. He spins me so that I’m against the counter, his hand on my neck moves to the back of my head, holding me in place. That’s when his lips make contact with mine.

This is a distraction, a primal need to take his aggression out, and I want to give him that.

I want to pull him closer, beg for more and never let go. That’s when I grab him by the front of his flannel shirt and yank him into me, knowing exactly what’s going to happen next.

Lifting me up, he sets me on the countertop in front of him, spreading my legs and then stepping between them. He pauses and looks me hard in the eyes. “I don’t know what this is, but I know I need inside you,” he whispers against my mouth. “I… just do. I can’t fucking explain it.”

I don’t expect him to. I’m right there with him. I want his frustration. I want everything he’s willing to give me.

His fingers trace the curve of my side until they’re at the waistband of my jeans. We both stop, just for a second. I’m aching for more.

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