Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Ronan grimaces as if the words taste bitter. “Unfortunately, rehab never seems to stick.”
I turn slightly toward him. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. She doesn’t hit me or set the house on fire. She just calls at the worst times and says things I’ll regret letting myself hear.”
“That’s a lot to carry around,” I say. If I didn’t think he’d freak out… I’d give him a hug.
Ronan shrugs. “You get used to extra weight if you wear it long enough.” His voice is quiet. Not defensive. Just worn. Like someone who’s been too tired for too long and doesn’t expect anyone to notice.
“I think you don’t let anyone help you carry it,” I say.
That gets his attention. He turns his head, scanning me like he’s trying to figure out what I want.
But I’m not angling. I’m just… here.
He looks away first.
We fall into silence again, but it’s different now. Murkier. I take another sip, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way his knee shifts slightly closer to mine. I don’t think it’s intentional. Nervous adjustment, most likely.
“You don’t talk like this with most people, do you?” I ask, keeping my tone light but my eyes steady on him.
Ronan doesn’t look at me. He stares into his glass as if it’s the safer option. “I don’t talk like this with anyone.”
I nod, letting the moment stretch, not wanting to spook him back into silence. “So why me?”
His jaw ticks once, a tiny fracture in the control he wears like armor. His hesitation is almost louder than words. When his response finally comes, it’s quiet, but there’s a bitterness threaded through. “No clue.”
I lean in slightly, not letting him wriggle out of this. “No. I think you do.”
His eyes meet mine—like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Bollocks, do you ever back off?” He’s angry, maybe even righteously so.
I blink, feeling heat coloring my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
“You push hard,” he says, sitting up straighter now, his whole body tightening. “Asking. Analyzing. Like you’re going to crack me open and figure out what makes me tick. It’s intrusive.”
His defensiveness spikes equal parts frustration and hurt because I’m truly only trying to be a friend. My eyes narrow into slits. “It’s called conversation, Barnes. Or are you so emotionally constipated that basic human interaction feels like an interrogation?”
He huffs out a breath, his gaze skittering away like he can’t stand the direct hit. “You don’t know me.”
Everything about this tells me to back off but I refuse to retreat. “I’m trying to,” I say, going all in on the challenge, “but you throw up walls and act like you’re doing me a favor by keeping your distance.”
Bullseye. I’ve struck a nerve. I see it in the way his head snaps back to me, in the full turn of his body, shoulders squared like I’ve stepped right over a line. His eyes are ruthlessly cold, and I catch a flash of something raw. “Maybe I’ve got a good reason.”
I don’t flinch, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down. I answer, steady and quiet, but unyielding. “Perhaps. But maybe that reason is fear. Or guilt. Or pride. I don’t know. Because you won’t let anyone close enough to find out.”
My heart hammers, but I maintain eye contact, refusing to let him disappear behind those walls.
The space between us shrinks—imperceptibly at first. We’re angled toward each other now, breaths slightly uneven. The kind of closeness that says neither of us is backing down.
His eyes burn into mine. “You think you want to know me, Francesca. But trust me, you don’t.”
“Why not?” I ask, quieter now. “Because you’re afraid what I’ll see is ugly? Or worse—breakable?”
I see the tension in his face, his neck. His stare drops to my mouth for a second before flicking back up.
My pulse stutters.
Oh God.
He’s close.
Closer than he was a second ago.
And even though he’s angry—no, because he’s angry—it’s electric. The kind of pull deep in your chest and stomach, then lower, that absolutely refuses to listen to reason.
I should step back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I whisper, “You don’t scare me, Ronan.”
His eyes flash. Not with anger. I’m not sure what it is. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the meaning. I see want and frustration and perhaps a bit of self-loathing.
I’m breathless now, heart pounding, so close enough that the heat radiates off him.
My body screams for him to kiss me. It’s reckless. Idiotic, even. We just filmed a commercial together, we’re racing each other next week, but right now, I don’t care. I refuse to care. Blood roars in my ears. I want his mouth on mine, and I think he wants it too, but then—
He pulls back and his face shutters, all emotion erased completely. It’s like someone hit the brakes on a cliff’s edge and I’m left dangling.