Royal(26)

I fold my arms. “Entitled much?”

“I’ll tell you what happened, Demi. I promise. But not yet. Let’s get to know each other again. Let me take care of you,” he proposes. “And when the time is right, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

I exhale. “How can I believe you? How can I trust you?”

“You can’t.”

My breathing halts.

His expression hardens. “But I’m asking you to try.”

I walk backward until I bump into the bottom of the stairs. Perching on the second to last step, I rest my head in my hands.

“I don’t know. I have a lot on my plate right now.” My gaze is fixed on his worn boots. In my heart of hearts, I know he’s had a rough seven years, and my chest burns when I think about all the ways his life could’ve turned out better. “I don’t think I have the energy for . . . this . . . right now.”

“Yeah, that’s not a good enough reason for me to walk away.” He takes a step toward me, dropping to my level and pulling me up. “I’ll be here in the morning to shovel your driveway before I go to work. I won’t bother you. Don’t worry.”

His hand reaches behind me and helps itself to the back of my jeans, where he retrieves my phone and keys in his number.

“There.” He slides it back in my pocket, his fingertips brushing my hips and sending a hitch to my breath. “You can reach me anytime. Anything you need. And I’ll drop off some dinner for you tomorrow night. Just text me and tell me what you want.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He shrugs, as if to imply it doesn’t matter. But it does. It matters. So much.

“No, really. Why?”

“Making up for lost time, I guess,” he says. “Making up for a lot of things.”

“I hate to inform you, but it’s going to take a lot more than shoveling snow . . .”

I’m smiling.

What the fuck?

No.

No, no, no.

I’m supposed to yell at him.

Stomp my feet.

Curse his name.

Beat my fists against his chest and then kick him to the curb.

And here I am, grinning like some love struck teenager, letting the high school quarterback charm his way back into her life.

I wipe the smile, and any traces of it, clean off my face.

“It’s probably not a good idea,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” His expression hardens. He’s displeased with my refusal of his kindness, but what did he expect?

“With Brooks in the hospital, I can’t be spending my free time with an ex-boyfriend. Do you know how bad that looks? And if my parents found out—or Derek . . . no one would understand. Hell, I wouldn’t even understand.”

I shake my head.

“It’s too much. I can’t. I appreciate it, but I can’t accept your help right now.” I rise and walk to the door, the polite, Rosewood way of asking someone to leave. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“He was cheating on you.”

Royal’s words suck all the oxygen from the air.

My knees wobble and my face numbs. I step back, losing my grip on the doorknob.

“Brooks had been seeing someone on the side.” He speaks slowly. “For quite a while. Well over a year.”

“No.”

Royal nods. “I confronted him last week. He had no clue who I was, but I told him I was an old friend of yours. Told him if he didn’t make a decision, I’d tell you everything. Said I’d make damn sure he’d live to regret ever hurting you.”

He rakes the back of his hand along his five o’clock shadow, his head cocked and eyes wincing.

“The night of his accident,” Royal says, “he was headed north on highway nine. Crashed a couple of miles outside Glidden, not far from her house. He was going to her, Demi.”





Chapter Twelve




Royal



“Demi, say something.”

Everything about her is frozen solid. Her stance. Her expression. Her stare.

“You okay?” I ask.

She snaps out of it without warning, her glistening eyes blinking like someone flipped a switch. Stomping down the hall, she yanks open a closet door and rifles through it.

“What are you doing?” I call out.

Demi won’t answer. Thirty seconds pass, and she comes back with a shiny nine iron gripped in her fist.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” My hands protest, and I back up against the door.

“This isn’t for you.” She marches past me, rips the door open, and flies outside in nothing more than jeans and a sweater. Her bare feet leave footprints in the light layer of snow that’s begun to fall in the last half hour.

I step into my boots and run after her. By the time I find her, she’s punching in the code to their three-car garage. An empty stall where his Mercedes once sat holds the spot between a gorgeous, vintage Porsche 911 painted in a glossy shade of Bahia Red and a black on black Range Rover with twenty-inch rims and custom tints.