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Thief:A Bad Boy Romance(6)

By:Aubrey Irons
 
He snorts. “I was, before I realized who it was.”
 
“Oh fuck you,” I spit.
 
“I didn’t recognize you, okay?” He shrugs again, raking his fingers across that distractingly attractive shadow on his cheek. “You got hot.”
 
My eyes go wide as I feel the indignation boil up inside. “Excuse me?!”
 
Silas laughs. “No-no, hang on, that came out wrong. I mean you got hotter.”
 
“Keep digging, douchebag.”
 
His eyes flare for a second as they hold my gaze, his lips tight.
 
“You changed your hair.”
 
Yeah and my direction in life, and everything else about me since you walked away from us.
 
But I don’t answer him. Instead, we stand in silence right there on the pier of our hometown, right where we used to stand staring at each other under totally different circumstances. Under totally different stars.
 
My mind reels, trying to take in this man from my past - the man from my past. And I don’t know whether I want to beg him to kiss me the way he used to where my damn toes would curl, or if I want to shove him right off the end of the pier.
 
Or worse.
 
“You didn’t answer the question,” I finally say quietly.
 
“Which one is that.”
 
I suppress the growl in my throat. “What are you doing here, Silas.”
 
He shrugs. “It’s not every day Jacob Hammond gets a park named after him.”
 
I stare at him. “You came back for my dad?”
 
“Rowan invited me.”
 
I make a mental note to bury my older brother. Alive. In a very deep hole.
 
God he’s more attractive than he ever was. The boy I once loved became a man over the last eight years. He’s bigger all over - thicker chest, broader shoulders, more muscle on his arms. The smattering of teenage tattoos from when we were young have grown to full sleeves, and the smooth chin I used to kiss is now scuffed with a five o’clock shadow that was never there when we were young.
 
When I was eighteen and madly in love.
 
When we got married.
 
When he left.
 
“I thought you were in Ireland.”
 
I say it quietly. I don’t actually know that he was, just rumors and conversations overheard. I never wanted to know for sure where he’d gone off to, because it made it easier to stomach that he’d left. He wasn’t somewhere else –somewhere tangible - instead of next to me, he’d just disappeared.
 
Silas takes a deep breath, his eyes locked on mine. “I was.” His eyes search my face, though I don’t know what he could possibly be looking for. “Dublin.”
 
“For eight fucking years?” My voice is shrill, and I hate that it is.
 
“There-” he stops himself and shakes his head. “Yes.”
 
I’ve gone over a reunion   with Silas Hart in my head nine thousand times in my head over the years. Every conceivable scenario, every variable outcome, every possible conversation. At first, they were silly, stupid fantasies - he’d tell me how he’d been kidnapped, or thrown into a secret jail for years, and how the thought of me alone had kept him alive.
 
God I was an idiot back then.
 
But they soon turned more real - more grounded in the reality that the man I’d loved and given my heart to had willingly walked away and stolen it with him. And then my dream-conversations changed to me being this confident, self-sustained woman who casually laughs at the silly boy from her past who shows back up looking for forgiveness.
 
And yet here I am, letting every insecurity come pouring out like the same silly little princess who married the thief and thought there’d be a happily ever after somehow.
 
“Ivy-”
 
“Do they have fucking email in Ireland, Silas? Phones?”
 
He sighs as he drops his gaze to the boardwalk beneath our feet, the ocean sloshing gently beneath it.
 
“Well, this is going well,” he finally says, looking up with that grin on his face and that token glimmer in his eye.
 
“Don’t,” I say testily.
 
“Don’t what.”
 
“Don’t try and be funny, or cute-”
 
“Oh?” He grins at me. “So you do at least still think I’m cu-”
 
“Silas.” My eyes flash, his name almost choking in my throat. “Stop, please.” I shake my head. “I’m not that girl anymore.”
 
The grin drops from his face as his sea-blue eyes narrow in on mine. “And what girl is that, Ivy.”
 
“The girl you used to know,” I say, summing every ounce of firmness from deep inside and keeping my voice even.