Page 47 of Whispers of You
Shadow pushed her head into my hand.
“Like you were any help. Just throw yourself at him, why don’t you?”
She huffed out a breath and licked my palm.
I focused on my breathing. In for two. Out for two.
I could handle anything for one night. I wouldn’t even know he was here. And by morning, Holt would be gone.
A deep ache settled in my chest at the thought.
“Nope. Nope. Nope.” I pushed to my feet. “Come on.” I moved around the room like a drill sergeant, checking the barracks—sheets clean and perfectly tucked in, a comforter covering the bed, and one of my grandmother’s quilts at the foot of it.
As my fingers ghosted over the patchwork blanket, I could hear her voice in my head.“I know it hurts, Birdie. And you’ve got a right to that pain. But think how much he must have cut himself when he walked away from you. Now, he’s out there alone, half a world away, with nothing but ghosts to keep him company.”
I’d never believed her that he’d felt the sting of walking away. But I saw it now.
He lived with that pain every single day. That didn’t erase what he’d done, though. To me. To us. But I didn’t feel quite so alone.
As I stared down at the puzzle of colors that my grandmother had pieced together by hand, a little more of my anger bled away. I made a half-hearted attempt to hold onto it. That anger made it easier not to feel the hurt quite so deeply.
If I could distract myself by being pissed off, the longing for what might have been couldn’t take me out at the knees. But I’d have to let it. Because I couldn’t look into those haunted blue eyes and make Holt feel worse.
A knock sounded on my front door, and then it opened.
“Wren,” Lawson called, stepping inside.
I moved to the entryway, Shadow on my heels. “Get everything you needed?”
Lawson nodded. “Dusted the windowsill for prints, too, but didn’t get anything.” He glanced toward the vehicles. “Holt said you were okay with him staying.”
“Okaymight be a stretch.”
“I can make him leave,” Lawson said. “You don’t have to deal with him.”
I felt a twisting sensation somewhere deep. “I can’t put him through that.”
Lawson stared at me for a moment. “I’ve never known two people who loved each other more. Not even my parents. The way you two always were around each other… Like you could sense where the other was at all times and if they needed something,”—he took a breath—“you were giving it to the other before anyone else could blink.”
“Law,” I croaked.
“I’m not saying you need to run off and get married, but it seems a shame that you can’t at least figure out a way to be friends. That kind of care. Seems like you should at least find your way back to that.”
Footsteps sounded on the walkway, and my gaze lifted to dark blue eyes. Holt had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder as he moved toward us. I drank in everything about him as he moved.
Took in the way his white tee clung to his chest muscles, how his dark-wash jeans hugged his hips and thighs, and the way the scruff along his jaw made my fingers itch to feel the prickle of it.
No. There was no chance I could find my way to friendship with Holt. Because he still set my blood on fire.
15
HOLT
The floorboards creakedbeneath my feet as I rounded the edge of the living room, peering out into the night. It had only taken an hour for me to memorize the location of each troublesome plank. I could move through this entire cabin without making a sound.
But sometimes those sounds were a comfort, a reminder that the world still registered our presence.
I slowed by the window and then stopped. I’d stood outside with Lawson earlier, putting myself in the lurker’s shoes. From that position, you could see just about everywhere in the house other than the two bedrooms and the single bathroom. They would have a clear shot of the entryway, hall, and living room. Most of the kitchen and a good chunk of the loft upstairs, too.
