Page 38 of Read Me (Forget the Past 2)

You’re at work. This isn’t professional. Stop crying!

No matter what I say to myself, I can’t turn off the faucet. Every rational thought is overlaid with the image of my father. The picture in my mind almost foggy, blurred at the edges, as if time is eating away at my memory of him.

That makes me sob harder.

Only when I bury my face in a pillow and chant at myself to breathe through the pain, do I manage to calm down. But even when the tears slow and stop, my head pounds in a steady, painful rhythm. I feel like a mess, and I’m sure I look like one, too.

So, of course, there’s a knock on my office door.

“Summer?”

Cole. Why? Why does the handsome bad boy I’ve allowed myself to secretly crush on have to know that I’m crying myself into a migraine at work?

Can’t he just exist outside of a permanent five-foot radius of me?

Let me look at him. Fantasize about him. Maintain an image of a put-together woman around him.

“Can I come in?” His voice drifts through the door, but he manages to keep his volume low.

When I swipe at my cheeks the skin feels tender, as if I have a fever. “Did you lose your ability to see in the last five minutes?”

Silence, then, “No.”

Damn. It’s one thing to know I’m breaking down in here. It’s another to see the wreckage.

“Can you swear you’ll keep your eyes closed if I let you in?”

Another pause. “Are you naked?”

I gasp and push up from the floor, suddenly indignant. “Of course not!” I whip the door open to glare up at his sharply handsome face.

In comparison, mine must look like a red, swollen mess. I don’t cry pretty. I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who does, so maybe I shouldn’t be so self-conscious about it. But I just wish I wasn’t crying at all.

Cole doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who lets his emotions run rampant.

“Here! Feast your eyes upon the personification of misery.” My hands fall to my sides in defeat. Maybe this is better. I should drive him away anyway.

He’s quiet, and I find I like how Cole thinks about his responses before speaking. The words seem to matter more.

“Do you want a hug?”

A Cole Allemand hug? Does such a thing even exist? “Areyouoffering a hug? You don’t seem like a hugger.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want a hug full of lies.” I cross my arms, knowing that I’m being obstinate. But that’s what this day does to me.

Cole’s mouth twitches. “I’m not a hugger. But I’d like to hug you.”

Well then.

He spreads his arms in an invitation.

And there’s suddenly nothing more I want in the world than to accept.

Cautiously, I step forward, realizing my hands have a slight tremble as I reach for him. The second I’m close enough, Cole wraps his arms around me, holding my head to his chest with a large palm cupping the back of my skull.

I creep my arms around his trim waist, fisting my hands in the material of his sweater. My whole body shudders at the contact.

---