Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (30 page)

Landon heads me off, continuing as though we never stopped talking about Owen. "You should go see him. He's off tomorrow."

I'm already gearing up to leave.

Landon slides off his stool, too. "And I'm going camping in Mount Laguna with my aunt this weekend. Until Sunday. Emily—"
 

"Sorry, kid, I've got to head out. Work, you know? Good seeing you, though."
 

Disappointment overtakes his features. I know he wants me to say something else. Something real. But I can't.
 

"Tell your dad I said hi," I add, over my shoulder, my chest tightening again.

The shelf I've been stuffing with my thoughts of Owen? Son of a bitch is more of a large, overflowing bookcase. Seeing Landon threw its center of gravity off kilt. Boulder-sized pieces fall on me at random times during the day. It takes twice the amount of energy for me to focus on my tasks at work. And after I eat dinner and run out of things to clean, I pick up my phone a few times, only to set it down again.
 

The side lamp on the table is the strongest light source in the living room, its amber glow a contrast to the television, an indecipherable collage of voices and faces. My legs are tucked under me where I sit, but my index finger taps at my knee.
 

I want to be alone, tonight. It's been a long day. A long week. A longer two weeks. I'm just not sure how to calm the discomfort in the pit of my stomach. The silence around me feels different. Strange, even. Like there's noise weaved into it, static that needs tuning.
 

I look around, getting the odd sensation there's something I'm supposed to be doing. And for the first time in weeks, I don't think it's my usual restlessness.

On my side table, the cover of a paperback novel draws my eyes.

In the Dead of Night
.
 

It's the book Owen lent me the first night we slept together. I've never gotten around to reading the book. In all honesty, I just forgot about it. But tonight it seems to glow in the light of the lamp, almost humming in the silence, begging to be read.
 

I ignore it, turning to the television to continue flipping through the channels. But my eyes keep darting to the book. I can't remember the last time I felt the desire to pick up a book. I'm not sure why I'm resisting the urge to do so now.
 

I shut off the television and pick it up, glimpsing the first few words. Then the first few pages. Soon, the words and pages melt away and I see a movie playing before my eyes. The night wears on and I read completely unaware.
 

I'm not sure what I expected—but it wasn't this.
 

The protagonist is a detective in the middle of a murder investigation. But the case draws parallels to her own personal demons. The story is dark, graphic, and disturbing. But it's also funny and even a little sexy at times. I shovel grapes into my mouth and nibble on half a leftover sandwich, barely realizing what I'm doing as my other hand holds down the pages that my eyes dart across. And as the story wears on, it's obvious the character's desperation to solve the crime is rooted in something else altogether.
 

One passage in particular grips me. So much so, I go back and read it again.

She saw it all the time. Random acts of violence, calculated bits of evil. Good, innocent people whose lives would never be the same because they made a seemingly simple decision to turn left instead of right. To walk in when their gut told them to back away.

She witnessed these things and wondered how she managed to escape it all of her life, even while being right in the middle of it. It didn't make sense. She never considered herself a good person. It's not that she'd done anything unimaginably terrible to anyone—she hadn't. But the truth was, she'd never done anything to merit admiration either. Nothing that took her out of her comfort zone. She'd always taken the easier road. Pushed people away, lived just for her. The reason wasn't that she felt better than the people around her. On the contrary, she secretly considered herself unworthy.

When I finish the novel, flipping past the obvious last page as though hoping to find another secret chapter, a deep disappointment fills me at the realization the story is over. There's no happy ending for her. She never gains more than a superficial understanding of how her unhappiness is a symptom of her feelings of unworthiness.

The symptom
…

A paralyzing halo of self-awareness settles over me as my own truth finally clicks into place.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

My knuckles rake against the cold wood surface and the hollow sound breaks through the morning air. Leaning against the stair railing, I tilt my head back as I exhale. I'm not sure what to expect or how to calm the frantic pulse of my heart at my temples.
 

There's not a single smudge of white to be seen in the rich blue sky this morning. The California sun seeps into my pores and releases endorphins that cover me like a blanket. But the warmth can't reach the cold nerves in my stomach.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then another.
 

What am I doing?

"Emily? What are you doing?"

My eyes snap forward and land on his.

I go to speak, but somehow forget how to make a sound, distracted by the sight of him. Seeing him with fresh eyes for what feels like the first time ever. He's wearing a white t-shirt, tucked into navy blue pants, as though he'd just been removing his uniform when I arrived. His clean-shaven face, bright hazel eyes. His frame, the outline of his muscles under his shirt. It all makes my heartbeat kick into a frantic pace in my ear.

My lips part again, but words don't come out fast enough. "I—you were right."

He waits.

"You were right," I repeat the words slowly. "I have a problem. It's not just the alcohol—though I cut that out the night after we broke things off. The real problem is how I sabotage good things in my life."

My words leave an awkward ring in the air. The aftermath of the quick, almost choked way I say them, afraid my brain might try to filter the rawness out of them. The truth.
 

Owen looks frozen where he stands. He blinks a few times then gestures inside. "You…want to come in?"

He notices the way my fingers clutch the strap of my purse to keep my hands steady. I've never felt more intense nerves. And fear. The fear of realizing what's keeping me from everything I want, but not knowing if the realization is too late for me to get those things back.

Owen follows me into his living room and closes the door behind him.
 

When he turns to look at me, I falter.

"You look good," he says.

"You too."

We stand a few feet away from each other. His posture is stiff. Feet shoulder width apart, hands behind his back, face as serious as ever. The air between us is tense, accusatory even. We're both upset. Both secretly looking for someone or something to blame for keeping us apart. And there's no one to blame but the people in the room.

He scratches his forehead and I decide it's on me to break the ice. I made this mess. I need to clean it up.

"You were right," I say for the third time. "And as soon as I realized it, I stopped drinking. Weeks ago. But, things still didn't feel right. Then I realized the drinking was just a symptom. Of me feeling like I didn't deserve happiness. Good things. My job. My life.
You
."
 

My palms grow cold by the way he watches me in silence. I can't help but search his face for a hint of his thoughts. His expression is like a foggy glass wall, leaving the sensation that if only I stare long enough I will make out details. But all I see are shadows and blurry shapes of what lies behind it. I remind myself he deserves to hear this and push past the anxiety of baring myself to him. To anyone.

 
I go on, "It's like…this urge to keep myself right on the edge. When I'm standing at the height of everything I want, I feel a pull right behind my bellybutton. To jump. Standing too close to the edge and temping fate to take it away and give it to someone else. Someone who deserves it."

I can't deny the way his eyes dull under the compassion flooding them. "What made you realize this? What changed?"

 
My hands are a bit shaky as I reach into my purse for the book and hand it to him. "You," I say, simply. "You happened. You opened my eyes and made me realize I didn't want to be that way anymore. And so I stopped…because I want to change."

He opens his mouth to speak.

"And I miss you," I cut in, the words bursting out of me desperately. "I guess that's where I'm going with all of this. I miss you, Owen. I want to be in your life—and Landon's life, too. Being with you makes me happy and I don't know why I'm fighting it. I want happy. I deserve happy. And, yeah, maybe there's a happy without you—but that's just the thing. I don't want it. I don't want a happy without you. I just don't."

My breath catches at the base of my throat. I'm certain I'm standing stark naked. Not because his eyes are ravenous—they aren't. They're curious and maybe hesitant. What I feel is a vulnerable sort of naked. The going to school without your clothes on naked. The standing on a stage and forgetting your lines naked.
 

I've got nothing left to say and he's not offering anything in the silence that follows. I get the urge to run back out that door, to the fresh air my lungs scream for. But, as though sensing my impulse, his hands close over mine and pull me to him with such force, I'm certain I slip right under his armor.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Owen

She stumbles into our kiss. A kiss so good it's almost painful. Lips weaving over mine, her taste filling my tongue while her words continue to drum on me in just the right way.
 

My arms fold over her small frame, holding her in place, and I remember how hard it is for me to resist her and why I forced myself to stay away. Pulling back from our kiss, I look into her eyes.
 

"These last few weeks? They've been hell, Emily. I was a selfish asshole every night. Wanting to hear from you. Writing you messages—"

"What?" An alarmed expression crosses her face. "I-I never got any messages."

"That's because I never hit send." When her lips turn down, I rush to explain, "Wanting to talk to you, to feel you, to hear your voice—it was selfish. I knew it would pull your attention to me and away from where it needed to be. Which is yourself."

Those green eyes of hers grow increasingly translucent, but the struggle of what to say next is evident in the way her mouth opens, closes, and then opens again.

I have more than my share of things I need her to know. The sober, practical side of me itches in warning as I consider my words. "Emily, things are different now, you know that, right? Quitting alcohol isn't something you do once and never deal with again. It's something you do every single day. For the rest of your life."

"I know. I've been…lurking around some support group forums, online. The stuff on there…Jesus, it scares the shit out of me. Knowing how much worse things can get." She takes in a breath. "I swear, Owen. I'm ready to own up to this. Every day."

I resist the urge to smile because it seems out of place with her own face so grim. But there it is. Everything I've wanted to hear her say. She's acknowledging the struggle. Expressing a desire to face it.

Her body stirs in my arms when I lower my face into her neck and breathe in deep. "I've missed you, too," I say, pulling her tighter against me. "How you smell. How you feel."

Her frame curves into the gaps between us until every inch of our bodies is touching. I bring her against the door, flattening her body with mine and her gorgeous eyes dilate in surprise.
 

Every inch of her contained, this is how I like her best.

Her scent envelops me again, making my mouth water. It's an intoxicating, peachy smell that warms to vanilla and sweetens to caramel, somehow morphing into an actual taste. Making me want to take my time and savor her. I grow hard in my pants and, wanting her to know this, press my lower body onto her. She shivers, her hands closing over my sides, holding tight to my clothes as though afraid I'll pull away.

"God, I've just missed you," I say and as the words leave my lips, I lower them onto hers and demand another kiss. This kiss grows heavier and more frantic than the one before, our bodies already on edge, unwilling to wait any longer. "There's just one thing," I tell her, as her hands tug at my belt, undoing it. "I got called into work a few minutes ago."

She lets out a sudden breath of disappointment, arms dropping to her sides. "Oh, Okay. Really, I understand."

My chest constricts. I want nothing more than to stay here with her all morning, touching every part of her and hearing my name part her lips. But I can't and she's instantly understanding of this. All the time we were together, she was incredibly patient about my unpredictable schedule. One of the many reasons I know she and I have a real shot together.