I stare into those dark eyes and try not to sway closer. “I said I hate—”
The words are swallowed up as his mouth lands on mine. His kiss is hard, uncompromising, stealing my breath and sending my mind into a tailspin. His hands find the small of my back, pulling me closer as his lips overtake mine. It’s all-consuming. The kind of kiss you can’t even return properly — you just hang on for dear life and hope you’re still breathing when it’s over.
When he’s finished, my arms are looped limply around his neck, I’m panting like Boo when he takes on the stairs, and I’m pretty sure if Nate lets go of me I’ll slide to the floor in a heap of limbs, because my legs are made of Jell-O.
“I grew up with that —I hate you.” His forehead rests against mine; his eyes are closed tightly. “My parents would shout it at each other, in the years before they became so indifferent to their marriage they couldn’t be bothered to work up any feelings at all. Even hate. They didn’t always use the words, necessarily, but it was there in their eyes. In the way they snapped and snarled.” He exhales sharply. “I’ve never met two people more toxic for each other.”
“Nate,” I whisper, not knowing what to say.
His eyes flicker open. “Don’t say you hate me. Even if you’re joking. Even if you don’t mean it.” His forehead presses tighter against mine. “Don’t ever say that to me, West. Because the day you hate me is the day I know I’ve finally fucked things up for good.”
I look at him, feeling confused and hopeful and maybe even scared by his words. My hand lifts to trace the stubble shadowing his jawline. He sucks in a breath of air as soon as my fingertips make contact.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper, staring at his mouth. “I don’t think I could ever hate you. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
His eyes crinkle. “You’ve tried?”
“Plenty of times.”
“When?”
I tighten my arms around his neck and crane back to look up into his eyes. “Hmmm, let’s see…” I tilt my head. “Definitely that time in second grade when you and Parker cut all the hair off my favorite Barbie dolls.”
His lips twitch.
“And the time you put bean sprouts in my dinner and told me they were worms.”
He snorts.
“And!” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “When you turned me down for the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”
His eyes are glimmering with humor. “That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“No.” My voice gets smaller but I force myself to hold his gaze. “The time you pretended I didn’t exist for ten years.” I swallow. “I hated you then.”
He goes still, watching me carefully for a long, suspended moment. “You always existed for me, little bird.”
The endearment is a shock to my system. He hasn’t called me that for years, not since we were kids. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it slips from his mouth.
I try to duck my head so he won’t see the emotion swirling in my eyes, but his hand finds my chin and he tilts my head up, refusing to let me escape.
“Every damn day,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Since you were no more than five years old, that day I climbed over the fence from my yard into yours and saw you sitting on the grass, perfectly still, crying your eyes out over those damn turtle doves… Every second of every day since that moment, you’ve existed for me.”
“Then why…” I trail off.
His fingers stroke the tender spot where my jawline and ear connect. “Why what?”
“You wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t even look at me. And then you disappeared.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry. “I needed you, and you disappeared.”
His eyes get soft and a heartbreaking look drifts across his face — full of longing and regret and sadness. “I had to leave. The things my father wanted for me — a Harvard law degree, a cushy job in the DA’s office. … I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t become him. That life I watched him live, full of hatred and greed and self-obsession — it was never what I wanted for myself.” He pauses. “The only thing I ever really wanted was off limits.”
My breath catches in my throat. “And what was that?”
Me. Me. Me.I repeat it over and over, like a prayer to the heavens.Please, say it was me.
He doesn’t answer right away. After a minute, I realize he’s not going to at all.
His thumb moves to stroke the fragile place beneath my eye, where bruises stain the skin black and blue. “I wish I could erase this,” he says softly.