Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141556 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Trust. There’s that word again. He keeps asking for it, this man who’s given me every reason not to trust him. Who took everything from me and keeps asking for more. I shouldn’t trust him, but I do, and it hurts to admit it because I’m so afraid to give in, to give him this last piece when I’ve already lost or handed over everything else. But looking at him now, crouched in the gravel with his hand gentle on my face and desperation in his eyes, I realize something. He’s not asking for trust. He’s begging for it.
“I need you to pretend,” he says again, quieter now. “Pretend you’re going along with it. Act scared. Act angry. But don’t fight it so hard that Roman gets suspicious. Just go through the motions until I give the signal.”
“What signal?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
The question hangs in the air between us.
What choice do I have? I already do. He just needs to know it.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He lets out a breath, tension draining from his shoulders. He stands and pulls me up with him.
“We should get home. It’s getting cold.”
Home. The word still sounds strange. But I nod and climb back into the truck, and we drive the rest of the way in silence. A different kind of silence now. Heavy with secrets and plans and the weight of what’s coming.
The house is dark when we pull up, shadows stretching long across the porch. Calder carries my shopping bags inside, and I follow, suddenly exhausted. Drained.
He sets the bags on the bed in our room, then turns to look at me. “You should rest. Tomorrow’s going to be hard.”
“Hard.” The word feels inadequate. Tomorrow is going to be the hardest day of my life, and he’s calling it hard like it’s a difficult test or a long shift at work.
But I’m too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but nod and watch him leave, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.
I stand alone in the bedroom, staring at the bags full of new clothes. The red dress I tried on this morning. The boots I wore out of the store. Things that feel like they belong to someone else now.
I should unpack. Should shower. Should do any of the normal things people do when they come home from a day in the city.
Instead, I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.
FBI. Cover. Signal. Trust.
The words cycle through my mind like a prayer, like if I repeat them enough, they’ll start to make sense. But they don’t. None of this makes sense.
Calder is working with the FBI to take down Roman. Tomorrow night, he’s going to get his father to confess to crimes. The FBI will move in. It’ll be over.
And I’m supposed to trust him.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
The door opens again. I don’t look up, just listen to his footsteps cross the room. Feel the bed dip as he sits beside me.
“Saint.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
I drop my hands and turn to look at him. “What do you want me to say? That I’m terrified? That I don’t know if I can do this? That even knowing there’s a plan, I’m still scared out of my mind?”
“Yes.” He reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “Say all of that.”
“I’m terrified,” I whisper. “And I don’t know if I can trust you. I want to, but I don’t know how.” It’s not entirely the truth. I’ve already trusted him, been trusting him, so what’s a little further?
“I know.”
We sit like that for a long moment, hands linked, breathing in sync. Then I feel something shift in the air between us. Feel the weight of everything we haven’t said, everything we’ve been dancing around since the beginning.
I stand suddenly, pulling my hand from his. I strip off my jacket, then the sweater underneath. The new jeans. The boots.
“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, strained.
“If we’re going to do this,” I say, not looking at him as I pull off my shirt, standing in just my bra and underwear, “if I’m going to pretend tomorrow night, then I want something good to hold on to. Something real.”
I turn to face him now, chin lifted despite the vulnerability of standing almost naked in front of him.
“I want you.” The words come out steady, sure. “You want me. I don’t want the anger between us this time. I don’t want the fear. I want to choose this. Choose you. And not because I’m drunk or drugged.”
I hold my arms out to him.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me like he’s seeing something he never expected. Something precious.