Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Guilt gnaws at me for the next several minutes, the wish to confess almost overwhelming.
I’m about to break my suggestion in a shamefully quick time frame, when, unexpectedly, Mikhail tosses me a life vest.
With one arm between my legs and the other curled around my waist, he cranes me to his half of the bed. The tears I’ve held back for hours soak his shirt when he pulls me in close to his chest. He holds me like my sobs are as hard for him to hear as they were for me to hold back. Tears stream from my eyes as pleas for forgiveness fall from my mouth.
I don’t confess, though. His comfort is a coping mechanism I didn’t expect, and it kills my confession at my lips.
Even with the alcohol seeping from his pores strong enough to make me tipsy, I can’t bring myself to shatter this fragile moment of peace.
Mikhail needs this as much as I do.
As Mikhail rubs my arm in a soothing manner, my mind races with the possibilities of what his comfort could mean. Maybe I can find a way to talk to him, to explain what happened in a way that won’t fracture his relationship with Andrik and Zoya?
I push the thought aside and focus on the present when the thud of his heart lulls me toward sleep. One step at a time, I tell myself. I can’t fix everything overnight, but I can start by making sure Mikhail knows how much I appreciate his comfort.
I owe him far more than that, but for now, it is all I can give.
The next morning, Mikhail is gone. The bed is cold, and its emptiness is a stark reminder of the gap I still have to bridge between us.
I sit up, my heart heavy with the secrets I still carry. Inevitably, Mikhail will learn the truth. I can only hope that when the time comes, he understands this was never about hurting him. I want to guard the minimal good memories he has of his childhood and ensure they’re not tainted by the ill judgment of an adult.
After getting out of bed, I walk to the window and look out at the world beyond. The sun is shining brightly, casting a gold glow over everything. I had hoped this morning would be the start of our new beginning, but all I feel are the chains of our past shackling our progress.
I can’t live like this forever. Hiding the truth and pretending everything is fine haven’t gotten me anywhere fast over the past ten years. I need to make things right, to mend the damage years of silence caused. But how? How do I undo the damage that’s been done?
As I turn away from the window, my resolve strengthens. The crumpled bedding is only on one side of the mattress, from the side Mikhail pulled me to.
That means Mikhail never returned me to my side of the bed.
I slept in his arms all night.
My heart beats wildly when I lift the bedding to my face to drink in Mikhail’s scent. He smells like home, and his familiar scent has me replaying conversations we had before I learned the truth.
He said that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing me, how it would kill him to live without me for another ten years. That proves he doesn’t want to erase our past. He wants it reimagined, and I know the exact person who can help me achieve that.
I race for my phone, my fingers flying over the screen.
A huge smile stretches across my face when my call is answered after only one ring.
“I need your help,” I say, too captivated by my quick thinking to issue a greeting.
“Of course,” answers a familiar voice without pause for thought. “Anything you need.”
Chapter 31
Mikhail
Dim lights cast shadows on the bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle when I enter the office of my first solo establishment. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversations add additional thumps to the mariachi beat of my hungover head.
I woke up with a pounding headache and the remnants of last night’s splurge still lingering in my system. The thuds of my temples are nothing compared to the thumping of my heart when I recognized the fiery red hair splayed across my chest this morning when I woke.
I thought I had imagined Emerson’s presence last night, and as much as this kills me to admit, I’m glad I didn’t.
As I stroked Emerson’s tear-stained cheek, needing to ensure it wasn’t still wet, parts of our fight rolled through my head. The accusations and the pain came through clearly, but some details were hazy, blurred by the excessive consumption of alcohol.
Even though I couldn’t recall all our conversation, I knew I was responsible for the tears she had shed last night. I felt it in my chest. But since I also recalled how her voice trembled when she confessed to leaving me at the altar, I slipped out of bed and headed to work like hours behind a desk is a cure for the unease clutching my throat.