Damn, my hungover self is being too honest right now.
My trip to Arizona later couldn’t come soon enough.
‘Although,’ Honey adds with a perked brow—the kind of look I think I’d enjoy being at the mercy of more. ‘I didn’t appreciate you stripping down to your underwear when I suggested we get you into some pyjamas.’
Well, that’s just fucking embarrassing—
Oh God.
Does that mean … she’s seenit?
My smile instantly drops. Along with my chin as I cast my gaze down. Taking in my bare chest. The red lips tattoo branding my collarbone. The markshemade.
I never thought she’d get to see it.
I never thought I’d get to seeher.
Not after she left.
‘Sawyer.’ Honey doesn’t even have to say what she’s thinking, because I can tell simply from the tone—the choice of soft notes she uses as she says my name conveys enough. Her hand glides along the surface of the sheets, never quite reaching me. I want her to run her hands over my body, to feel out the tattoo, to demand I tell her how much it means to me.
After whatever happened last night, I don’t have the strength to pretend—barely have the strength to keep myeyes open, keep my body up. It was inevitable the past would come up, and I’m not sure I can fight it back anymore. Not now she’s leaving again.
So, I just sigh out, ‘I know, Blue. I know.’
In the quiet of the morning, her shuddering breath is as loud as thunder. ‘When did you get it?’
‘Not as long ago as I’d like to admit.’
Because she never left my mind. No matter how hard I tried.
Even the painful memories of her were an addiction.
The bed dips as she shuffles closer, the sheets scraping against her bare legs when she moves to her knees beside me.
‘When?’ she pleas.
I turn then, taking in the way her silvery eyes swim with regret. Melancholy. Lost time.
So much fucking lost time.
‘When I was twenty-two,’ I admit. ‘My mom got in contact with me. I was starting to make a bigger name for myself in bull riding, and somehow she got my contact details. I was hesitant at first, but deep down I thought maybe she hadn’t known how to find me all these years or felt too guilty to call. So, I met with her.’ My laugh is involuntary—the only way to cope with my stupidity. ‘She just wanted money, really. She took one look at me, saw I was still scarred, and decided I was only worth knowing for my money.’
‘Sawyer, I’m so s—’
I push on, desperate not to hear her pity. ‘Everyone just thinks the tattoo was a silly drunken decision or a reflection of my playboy life.’ Her face drops and I feel it in my heart, that she’ll never be the only one. ‘But it’s not—I got it as a reminder, that I’m stronger than my scars, that they don’t have to define me. That they prove I can survive anything. Like you leaving … Not that I really believe it, but it helps on the days I need it.’
A lone tear runs down Honey’s cheek. I don’t realise I’ve reached up to wipe it away with the pad of my thumb until I’ve done it, yet before I can pull my hand away, Honey’s covers mine, holding it in place. Letting her cheek lean into my cradling touch.
She closes her eyes for the briefest of moments, but when they reopen, her gaze goes straight to my lips, the column of her throat working. Her tongue darts out across her lips before she finally catches my eyes again. It’s pure torture. Seeing her in my bed. Touching her. Wanting to kiss away her tears.
Needing her on a depth I’ve never felt need before.
The need to win, for fame, for glory—none of it comes close to the need for Honey Goldman.
And I’m struggling to fight it. Have been since she moved in. Since I first laid eyes on her again.
‘Tell me why you left, Blue.’