Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(108)

Fuck. Who was I kidding? No amount of bourbon or denial could stop me from thinking about Bianca. I knew I’d be thinking of her for the rest of my life, which was part of the reason I was so depressed.

“Excuse me?”

I snapped my head up. Taylor was staring at me like I’d farted in church.

“What?” I asked apprehensively.

“You made an odd sound. Like you were trying to say something.”

Oh, no, Taylor. That’s only the sound of rampant despair. Please ignore me, I’m just over here dying. “Thinking out loud,” I said with a straight face. “Sorry.”

She looked like she had an itch somewhere indelicate that she really needed to scratch. She folded her hands over the contract in her lap and glared at me. “Mr. Boudreaux,” she said, her pinched lips barely moving, “would you like to take a break?”

I almost groaned in relief. “Yes. I need to stretch my legs. Back in ten.” I was already on my feet and headed toward the door.

“I’ll be right here,” she said, adding to my misery.

I had to get out of the house before I started throwing things.

Ignoring Rayford’s startled glance when I passed him in the kitchen, I burst through the French doors and out into the cool evening air. Then I stood on the lawn in the backyard with my hands on my knees, gulping in deep breaths, wondering how long it would take before the taste of Bianca’s skin would fade from my memory.

It had been six days since the funeral, and I was dying by degrees without her.

But the nights were the worst. The dreams, dear God. Torture. Every little moment I spent in her presence had somehow seared itself into my subconscious, so when I fell asleep I was treated to a Technicolor replay of everything she’d ever said to me, every look, every smile, every touch. They were nightmares of a sort. Especially the dreams about our time together at Moonstar Ranch.

Even in my dreams I could taste her.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered. I straightened and ran a hand over my face. My beard, which grew like weeds, was almost as thick as it had been the night I met her. It was a scratchy mess, not unlike my brain.

I spent a few minutes just breathing, letting the fresh air clear my head. Then I wandered down to the lower lawn where the tent had been set up for the Wounded Warrior benefit, leaned against the rough bark of an ancient willow, and stared out at the lake. It glittered like a thousand stars under the light of the rising moon.

Being with Bianca had changed me in ways I didn’t know I could change. They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but that was a big, steaming pile of bullshit. It was infinitely worse for me now. I thought I’d loved Cricket, but that was nothing compared to the fire Bianca stoked in my heart.

I loved her so much it burned. It scorched and glowed white-hot in all the dark places inside me, like I’d swallowed the sun.

But this was reality now. Loneliness and longing and arms that ached to hold someone who was no longer there. Who would never be there.

Who would never love me.

My eyes stung. I realized when I swiped my fingers over my cheeks that they were wet. I laughed—a hoarse, ugly sound—and turned away from the lake. I couldn’t stand to look at it suddenly. It made me sick. The moonlight reflected off its surface was too romantic, and I was in no mood for romance.

Let’s get this over with. Glaring at the house, I took a moment to steel myself, then I trudged back inside, not ready to finish what I’d started with Taylor, but knowing it had to be done.

Rayford wasn’t in the kitchen. From down the long hallway, I heard raised voices.

Someone was shouting in the library.

A woman.

I knew it was only my lovesick heart that made the voice sound like Bianca’s, but I took off at a run anyway. My steps echoed like gunfire off the marble floor.

When I reached the open library doors, I skidded to a stop, blinking in astonishment.

Rayford lounged on the sofa, an amused smile lighting his face. Standing on opposite sides of the coffee table were Taylor and Bianca, squared off like pistoleros about to draw their guns. Bianca was dressed in rumpled pink pajamas with little blue bunny rabbits all over them, a beige raincoat, and a pair of those hideous clogs she wore to work. Her hair was sticking up in wild tufts all over her head.

She looked like an escapee from an insane asylum, and also the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“And another thing!” she shouted at Taylor. “You really shouldn’t wear brown lipstick!”

“Well hello there, sir,” said Rayford calmly. “As you can see, Miss Bianca and Miss Taylor were just gettin’ acquainted.” His smile grew wider. “I tried to tell Miss Bianca you were busy, but she almost broke down the front door, so here we are.”