“Jesus, Demi.” I run my hand down her arm, stopping short at her wrist. I want to hold her hand, comfort her. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I mean, it sucks being lied to. Manipulated. Conned.” She bites her lip and rolls her eyes. “The worst thing about it is having someone think you’re dumb enough to fall for the lies. Is it weird that I’m not freaking out right now? Should I be freaking out more? Maybe there’s something wrong with me.”
“Nah.”
“I mean, there has to be something said for when a woman finds out her ex-fiancé knocked up his mistress, and then she goes running into the arms of the only man who ever truly broke her heart.” Demi’s fingers drum across her chest as she stares at the ceiling, releasing an audible sigh. “I’m messed up. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t even know how to fix it either.”
“Maybe not everything needs to be fixed.”
Demi rolls to her side again, resting her cheek against her hand. Our eyes lock, and all the oxygen is sucked from the room. There’s still a trace of red on her lips from earlier. I washed the lipstick off my mouth hours ago, as soon as I got home, but her taste remained.
That addictive taste.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks. “Like you want to devour me.”
“Because maybe I do.”
She smiles, her lids seductive and half-closed, and I take it as an invitation. A sign. A green light.
I pull her on top of me, and she sits up, straddling my hips. The hem of her dress inches up, and she pulls her dark hair free from the tight, knotted bun on the back of her head. She tucks loose tendrils behind her ears. There’s a sweet glow about her.
“Remember that time,” I say. “Back at your parents’ house. That day we got caught in the rainstorm outside.”
“And you threw mud at me.”
“And you threw it right back.”
“We were covered in mud,” she says. “It was a Saturday. The whole family was gone at one of Daphne’s art shows in Rochester.”
My hands rest on her outer thighs, my thumbs moving closer to her core.
“We stripped naked, muddy clothes trailing down the hall to the laundry room,” I say.
“You threw a load in the washer and started it up,” she says. “And lifted me up.”
“Who knew the vibration of a washing machine could make sex with you that much more incredible than it already was?” My hands skim up her thighs, finding the curve of her hips and pulling her closer.
Demi’s palms are flat on my chest, and her dark locks spill down her shoulders.
“God, your Dad would’ve killed me if he knew I defiled you on the family Kenmore.” I smirk. Demi laughs.
Her smile fades a moment later. “You should come home with me next week. For Thanksgiving. See everyone again. Daphne will be home from Paris.”
Her father’s last words to me echo in my mind, the way they have for years. Robert was the first person I called to bail me out that night, and instead of urgency or sympathy, I found myself condemned. Banned from the Rosewood family.
He didn’t believe me when I professed my innocence, and I’ll admit that the evidence against me painted a compelling picture. For a prosecuting attorney who’s heard every red-blooded American criminal profess his innocence, my insistences went unheard.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Demi,” I say carefully, watching her expression fall. “Your dad . . .”
“Let me deal with him.”
I can imagine her parents’ world shattering when she breaks the news about Brooks, and imagining the expressions on their faces when she shows up with me Thanksgiving day?
“Maybe someday, okay? Not now. One thing at a time.”
“One thing at a time?”
“Yeah.” I cup her cheek. “You really want to spring me on them right now? After the last couple of weeks?”
She exhales, running her fingertips along my arm and pulling my hand from her face. “You’re probably right. I mean, they did pretend you didn’t exist for seven years. There are definitely some strong feelings there.”
A crushing sensation covers my chest when I hear that the only people I ever considered family pretended I was dead for seven years.
“This thing that happened.” Demi glances down at me, her elbows tucked at her sides. “How bad was it?”
“I spent some time locked up for a crime I didn’t commit.”
“If you didn’t commit it, why’d you stay away? Couldn’t you just explain what happened?”
“I tried. Your dad wouldn’t believe me. And I ended up taking a plea deal, which required that I plead guilty, so on paper, yeah, it looks like I did something horrible.” I search for her hands, threading my fingers through hers. “But I swear to you, Demi. I swear on my life, I didn’t do it.”