I try my damndest to fall asleep. I really do.
But no matter how many times I toss and turn, I can’t seem to shut my mind off. Can’t seem to stop replaying all the things Conor told me tonight.
I saw you, Shelby. I still see you. I think, even if I go blind, I’ll see you in my dreams for the rest of my life.
Who the hell would be able to sleep, after hearing a speech like that? Not me, that’s for damn sure. Which is why, approximately fifteen minutes after Conor has ordered me under penalty of celibacy to stop talking… I sigh dramatically into the dark.
“Hey,” I whisper softly. “Are you asleep?”
“Yes.”
I elbow him. “You are not.”
“But I aspire to be.”
Rolling my eyes, I manage to stay silent for another few minutes, holding in the words until I feel like I might actually explode from the strain of trying to keep them contained. “You know, you could’ve said hello to me.”
He cracks open an eye. “What?”
“At Phoebe and Nate’s wedding last month. You could’ve said hello instead of ignoring me.”
The eye shuts. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“You barely looked my way!”
“Oh, trust me. I saw you doing the electric slide, Hunt. Not a pretty sight.”
“Jackass.”
His lips twitch.
I glower. “It’s just rude, that’s all.”
“Guess we aren’t sleeping,” he mutters tiredly.
“I’m just saying, you could’ve at least acknowledged my existence.”
“Couldn’t very well do that without blowing my cover.”
“It wasn’t like you were on duty,” I point out. “You can’t help it we have friends in common. It was a coincidence.”
He’s silent.
“Wait… it was a coincidence, right?”
He grunts noncommittally.
“Conor Gallagher!” I exclaim, aghast. “Did you crash that wedding just to spy on me?”
His eyes open fully to look into mine. “No.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Maybe because you enjoy being ornery and questioning every damn thing I ever tell you?”
I stare at him, waiting for the truth.
He sighs. “Nate’s a friend. He invited me. But I will admit, I wasn’t planning on attending until I found out you were a bridesmaid. Accepting that invitation was a chance to keep a closer eye on you. I took it.”
“Ugh! I freaking knew it!”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“I’m not wearing panties. You took them off, remember? With your teeth.”
“Not likely to forget that. Not ever.” His eyes glitter with lazy heat.
“Don’t try to distract me with that sexy look. We’re having a serious conversation.”
“Thought we were trying to sleep.”
“No, you were trying to sleep. I was contemplating the depths of your stalker-like behavior.”
“You know, you should actually be thanking me for attending that wedding — seeing as it ended up getting crashed by those loan sharks who were after your friend Lila.” His brows go up. “Who do you think arrested them and kept the whole reception from descending into chaos?”
I blanch. “I… but… you… wait, that’s…”
“Cat got your tongue, Hunt?”
Yes, actually. I’m quite speechless.
Somehow, in the craziness of the past few days, I never put it together that Conor was the one who stepped in to save Phoebe and Nate’s wedding day. It makes sense, now that I think about it… but the knowledge is still hard to wrap my mind around. Perhaps because it stirs scary feelings to life inside my chest. Feelings that terrify me down to my soul.
Conor Gallagher has been saving your ass since before you ever met him.
That particular realization is too complicated to unpack right now, so I push it to the back of my mind and force a light tone.
“Well. Unless you have a death wish, may I suggest not sharing this information with the bride — Phoebe will kill you if she learns you crashed her special day just to spy on her friend.”
“Relax. I was an exemplary guest. RSVP’d promptly, ordered the steak, even bought them a damn gift off their registry. A blender. Five-speeds. Very impressive.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, because that’s what marriage is about. Small household appliances.”
“Suppose I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’ve never been married.”
“Consider yourself lucky,” I mutter, thinking of Paul.
He’s silent for a long time. So long, I think maybe he actually did fall asleep. But then, from the darkness, I hear a quiet, “I used to.”
I scrunch up my nose, confused. “Huh?”
“I used to consider myself lucky. Thought I’d dodged a bullet by not settling down. You have to understand… in my line of work, the things I see…” His voice is so soft I can barely make out the words. “It’s hard to imagine ever being able to come home at the end of the day and act like a husband. I always figured it was easier just to stay unattached.”
“And now?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.
His eyes find mine. “I’m thirty-two years old. I live alone. My parents are out in California, still in the same house where I grew up. No siblings. No pets. No social life to speak of, not counting the occasional after-work function. This career is all I have. I’ve built my entire life around it.” He blows out a sharp breath. “It used to be enough. But maybe it’s not anymore. Maybe I want… something more than just the job.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from asking what changed his mind.
Who changed his mind.
When I speak, I do my damndest to keep my voice steady. “Not that I pretend to be an expert on living the perfect life…”
Eyes closed, he snorts.
“But I have to believe it’s about balance.”
“Look, Hunt, I’m not doing yoga with you no matter how much you beg.”
“Not that kind of balance, asshole. I’m talking about a work-life balance. You should work in order to live, rather than live only to work.”
“You get that off a greeting card?”
I throw a pillow at his head. It his him square in the face. Sitting up, he growls as he squishes it in his grip. His eyes are shining with the promise of retaliation. “You sure you want to start a pillow fight with me, Hunt? Guarantee you won’t win.”
My pulse is thready and my mouth is strangely dry at the prospect of Conor being playful with me. Letting loose, laughing. Things I never in a million years thought the two of us would ever do, based on the way we butt heads. But as he sits there looking at me like that… so gorgeous in the dim light…
He really and truly takes my breath away.
“Well?” he prompts, the pillow held aloft.
“No,” I breathe. “I surrender.”
“Chickenshit.”
“Didn’t you say something about wanting to sleep?”
“Oh, you want to sleep now? After waking me up to ask me about a wedding?”
I blush. “It’s not really about the wedding. I was just… curious, I guess. About you. About this job. About…”
“What, Shelby?”
“Why… Why me?”
“I don’t follow.”
“I just… I’m finding it hard to believe. Of all the cases you’ve ever worked… I’m the one that made you question your ability to do your job properly.”
His teasing smile falls away, replaced by a serious look. “You may find it hard to believe, but it’s the truth. I didn’t lie to you. I won’t ever lie to you.”
“No, that’s not what I meant at all—”
He cuts me off. “I’ve been doing this job for a long time, first in New York, now here in Boston. It’s all I’ve ever been good at. And, like I told you before, it’s all I have. My parents weren’t exactly thrilled when I walked away from their plans for me back in California. They cut me off when I told them I was applying for the FBI Academy after my college graduation, instead of helping manage the chain of car washes my father owns.”
I blink. “I cannot picture you running a car wash empire.”
“Yeah, well, neither could I. That’s why I left.” His eyes get distant. “I thought New York would feel like home, but it never quite fit. That’s why I took the transfer up here. It wasn’t about wanting a fresh start in a new city. I simply had nothing tying me there. No unbreakable relationships, no permanent roots. I figured one zip code was as good as another. Simple as filling out a change-of-address card. Because for me, home is just a place to crash. That’s it. And when I’m there, I’m usually wishing I could be out in the field instead.”
“Your job is your life,” I murmur.
He nods. “You talk about a work-life balance… but for the past decade, since I was a twenty-two-year-old kid, this job has been all I’ve thought about. It’s come before everything — before family, before relationships, before friendships or holidays or vacations. I’ve put my career first and never blinked an eye about it. Never even come close to questioning the decision.” He sucks in a breath. “Until your case came across my desk.”
My eyes widen.
“You are the only thing that has ever made me second-guess myself. The only case I’ve ever gotten so invested in… I couldn’t do my job. Couldn’t trust myself to make the right call, when it came down to it.”
I don’t even know what to say. Whether I should apologize for making him doubt his own abilities or do cartwheels around the room because, holy freaking shit, if he’s saying what I think he’s saying…
“You’re more than a case, Shelby Hunt. You’re more than the job,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the hair at my temple. “You are the exception to every rule I’ve ever written for myself. And it scares the ever-living shit out of me.”
I turn my face into his shoulder to hide the fact that I’m crying.
He’s the bravest man I’ve ever known.
He’s not scared of anything.
But he’s scared of the way he feels about me.
He doesn’t say anything else. He just holds me close as my tears drip onto his skin and strokes my hair until I finally fall asleep.
When I wake up the next morning, Conor is no longer in bed with me.
I sit up, looking around for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. Throwing off the sheets, I grab the first article of clothing I come across — a large black FBI sweatshirt resting on the armchair — and tug it over my head. My hair feels twice its normal size, bushy and mussed from a night of lovemaking, but I barely care. A smile stretches across my lips as I barrel out into the living room.
“Hey, sexy, where’d you g— OH!”
I let out an embarrassed yelp as my eyes catch up to my mouth and I see Conor sitting on the sofa… beside Kaufman and Evelson. My cheeks turn fire-engine red as three male sets of eyes cut to me at once.
I instantly regret my choice of nicknames, though not as much as I regret the fact that I didn’t put on pants before rushing out of the bedroom. With as much decorum as I can muster, I reach down and tug the hem of my sweatshirt more firmly over my thighs as I walk toward the sofa.
“Gentleman,” I say in a haughty voice.
Kaufman nearly snorts coffee out his nose.
Evelson forces a cough to cover his laugh.
“Hunt. You’re awake.” Conor’s mouth is twitching with amusement. “Tell us… which one of us were you referring to, exactly?”
“Me, obviously.” Kaufman smirks. “I’m the sexiest by a landslide. Have you seen these baby blue eyes?”
“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Evelson chimes in, rubbing his buzzed head. “Some chicks dig the bald look.”
I will myself to sink into the floorboards and disappear. Unfortunately, my powers of invisibility don’t seem to be cooperating at the moment.
“I’ll just… grab some coffee…” I mutter weakly, darting into the kitchen and away from their laughter.
Smooth, Shelby. So smooth.
I’m pouring myself a steaming cup when two arms brace against the counter on either side of me. A firm chest hits my back.
“Good morning,” Conor rumbles in my ear.
“Is it?”
“Oh, come on. We’re required to tease you a little.”
I turn around inside the cage of his arms and I kid you not, my knees go weak when I see the amount of warmth in his eyes.
“Hi,” I whisper, arching into him.
“Hi,” he rasps, leaning down to kiss me.
We lose ourselves for a minute, mouths moving together as unchecked passion blossoms bright between us. It’s dangerous — how addicted I’ve already become to his touch. I crave it like a drug, seek it out with a relentless, limitless drive. After a minute or two, I’ve forgotten all about my coffee growing cold on the countertop, about the two men sitting in the other room, about the very real danger I’m in…
Conor has a smidge more self control. He pulls back, breaking our lips apart, but his breaths are as ragged as mine.
“This could be a problem.” He’s staring at my mouth.
“Oh?” I lick my lips innocently. “How so?”
“You are a dangerous distraction.”
“Is that right?” I sidle toward him, craning my neck back to maintain eye contact. “I’d apologize, but I’m not really sorry…”
His jaw clenches with restraint. “Keep teasing me, you will be later.”
“Is that a threat, Gallagher?”
“A promise, Hunt.”
Our gazes hold, full of heat, and I know we’re both thinking about that elusive later, counting the hours until we’re back in bed with nothing to concern us but moans and sighs and bare skin.
“Keep looking at me like that, I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” he mutters.
“Is that supposed to deter me?”
“Only if you’d like me to actually catch Petrov and his boys before they do more damage to our lives.” His brows lift. “If not, by all means, let’s tell the world to go to hell and go back to bed.”
“Fine.” I sigh melodramatically. “I see your point. I suppose I’ll let you off the hook so you can go save the world now. But later…”
“Later,” he echoes.
We both grin like two giddy kids.
First step: save the world.
Next step: all the scorching hot sex we can handle.
I must say, I’m not entirely hating this plan…
“Hey.” My head tilts as a thought suddenly occurs to me. “How’s Sykes? Any change in her condition?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Grab your coffee and come debrief. We’ll fill you in on everything that happened while you were sleeping.”
“Psh! A gal catches six measly hours of shut eye and she misses everything…” I grumble as Conor turns and walks back into the living room. I watch him go, my eyes glued to his ultra-fine ass. Say what you will about the man — he fills out a pair of jeans like nobody’s business.
Coffee mug in hand, I follow after him. The men are gathered around the coffee table — laptops open, thick manila folders scattered across every square inch of the glass surface. Catching my eye, Conor jerks his chin toward the open cushion beside him. I sink down onto it, take a large sip of my coffee, and peer at the bevy of documents. There must be thousands of printed pages here.
“What is all this stuff?”
“The Petrov case files,” Conor tells me, flipping through the folder on his lap.
“All of this is about Petrov?!”
Evelson glances over. “There’s more back at the Bureau — this is just what we thought might be important to revisit now that he’s in the country. Key intel on his business operations, his past criminal activities, the work your husband did for him…”
I tense up a bit at the mention of Paul.
“Speaking of your husband…” Conor looks at me. His eyes are suddenly remote, unreadable. “That was part of what we wanted to brief you on.”
“Is he…” I trail off, bracing myself for bad news.
“Kaufman,” Conor prompts. “Show her.”
The blond agent leans forward and hits a few buttons on his keyboard. A second later, a series of images pop up onscreen. “These were taken by a traffic camera in Brookline late last night.” He hits zoom on one of the photos, and it comes into clearer focus. The quality isn’t great, but I manage to make out three figures on the sidewalk, exiting a white van. Two are quite large and almost identical.
The Evanoffs.
As for the third figure… They appear to be carrying him between them, his feet dragging along the ground as though he’s unconscious.
Paul.
My stomach twists in an uncomfortable mix of guilt and horror and vindication.
He’s merely reaping the seeds he sowed, an unforgiving voice whispers from the back of my mind. Don’t you dare feel sorry for the man who’s done you more damage than anyone else on this earth.
“Here, this one is clearer,” Kaufman murmurs, skipping forward a few frames. The next photo he pulls up is far better quality, taken by a different camera. It shows the three men in an alleyway, illuminated by an overhead streetlamp.
I gasp audibly when I see Paul’s face. Or… what’s left of Paul’s face. He’s almost unrecognizable — two black eye sockets, a fat lip, his nose broken and swollen to twice it’s normal size. It looks more like an eggplant than a facial feature.
Again, the Evanoffs are dragging him between them like a sack of potatoes. I wonder if the extreme damage extends to the rest of his body. If he’s unable to walk on his own volition.
“My god,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. I’m gripping the coffee cup so tightly, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hands. “Please… don’t show me any more.”
“Nothing more to show,” Kaufman replies. “They entered this building around 3AM and haven’t been spotted since. We think there’s a good chance they’re still inside.”
“What’s the building?”
“Officially? It’s a Russian deli,” Evelson informs me. “Unofficially? It’s been a mob front for the local Bratva cabal for years.”
“And,” Kaufman adds, smiling wide. “It’s been closed for business all week. Interesting coincidence.”
“So you think it’s where the Evanoff brothers have been staying? Where they’re keeping Paul now?”
“That’s definitely a working theory,” Evelson says.
I glance at Conor, who’s being suspiciously silent on this matter, and find his eyes are locked on my hands. More specifically, on my white-knuckled grip around the coffee mug. When his face lifts to mine, his expression is unreadable.
“Hey.” My brows furrow. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he says, but his jaw is so tight I don’t believe him for a second. “And Paul will be, too.”
Since when does Conor care about Paul’s welfare?
Is this the same man who punched him in the face mere days ago?
“Conor—”
“I know the photos looked bad, but it’s actually a very good sign he’s still alive at this point. If our intel plays out, we’ll recover him.” He sucks in a breath. “And… you can go back to your life.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I murmur, thinking of how good it’ll be to have all of this behind us. To start living again. To get to know a certain indigo-eyed FBI agent outside interrogation rooms and cheap motels and safe houses.
My lips turn up in a small smile at the thought.
Conor’s still staring at me with that strange look. When he sees the smile, his face clouds over into a scowl.
I tilt my head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be, Hunt?”
His tone is sharper than I’ve heard it in ages. Maybe ever.
My mouth opens to reply, but he’s already turned away from me. Rife with confusion, I stare at the back of his messy black head as he questions Evelson about the activity on Petrov’s credit cards since he entered the States. I try to pay attention to the answer, but bank statements seem suddenly less vital than the man sitting two inches from me.
And a whole world away.
Something is definitely bothering him. He’s acting strangely. Closed off and cold — like he used to be, the first day I met him. I try to figure out what could’ve possibly triggered his shift in mood from our playful banter in the kitchen ten minutes ago to this unexpected brooding anger… but I’m drawing a complete blank.
You’re just reading into things, I assure myself. He’s under a lot of pressure with this case. But he’s still the same man who held you as you fell asleep last night. The man who said you’re more important than this job.
As soon as Petrov and his thugs are off the streets, things will be fine.
Better than fine.
You’ll see.
And yet, as I listen to the agents making plans to further surveil the deli in Brookline, I can’t shake the strange, unsettling suspicion that I’m missing something so obvious, it’s staring me straight in the face…
After a few hours, Evelson and Kaufman disappear to do… whatever it is they spend their days doing. Conor is fielding calls from the bedroom, helping coordinate the deli surveillance operation. After the Eastie incident, they’re taking extra precautions. Planning a strategic strike. They can’t just storm in, guns blazing, and hope like hell the Evanoffs haven’t rigged the place with another homemade explosive.
Not without putting more agents lives in danger.
I suck down my second cup of coffee as I flip absently through the files on the coffee table. Most of them are stamped with big, bold CONFIDENTIAL notices on top, which means I probably shouldn’t be reading them… but there isn’t exactly a lot else to do here at the safe house.
My eyes snag on the name HUNT sticking out the top of one folder. I yank out the page, my eyes widening as they scan down a crib sheet of Paul’s criminal activity. I knew he was in deep shit with both the SEC and the FBI for his myriad financial blunders… but this is far worse than I’d imagined.
Fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, insider trading.
The list goes on, predating even his involvement with Petrov. Some of these charges are for crimes committed while he still worked at LP Consulting, dating back nearly a decade. Which means, even he makes it out of this alive… he’s not going to be a free man for a long, long time. There are so many federal felonies listed here, he’ll make Bernie Madoff look like a freaking Boy Scout if he ever goes to trial.
“Not quite the perfect future you were expecting, is it?”
My head whips around at the sound of Conor’s voice. He’s standing behind me, staring at the sheet of paper in my hands. I set it down carefully on the table.
“When it comes to Paul, I learned pretty early on that expecting perfection was a surefire way to wind up disappointed.”
Conor’s eyes narrow on mine. His arms are crossed over his chest and he appears to be debating whether or not to say something.
“Look,” he says finally in a strangely empty voice. “I know I made you a promise that I’d get him back for you. And despite what happened between us… despite what I feel for you… I will do my best to honor that promise.”
Confusion spirals through me. “Huh?”
“I want you to be happy, Hunt. Even if it’s not with me.”
“I repeat… Huh?”
He shakes his head, not hearing me. “But you saw that rap sheet. And that’s just a draft. Preliminary charges. Once he’s in custody and formal charges are filed…”
I simply blink at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. I’d be less lost if he started speaking in Swahili. “Um…”
“Shelby, you have to know… even if I manage to extract him from this, to get him away from Petrov and the Evanoffs… there’s no way you’ll ever have him back. Not in the way you want. Not as a husband or a life partner.”
“But..” I splutter, utterly dumbfounded. “But I don’t want him back.”
Conor tenses. “What?”
“I don’t want Paul,” I tell him, eyes wide.
I want you, I think but don’t say.
Scrambling to my feet, my hands plant themselves on my hips as I level him with a severe look. “What, exactly, led you to believe I’d ever in a million years want to get back together with my ex?”
Conor’s face is a flat mask, his tone is carefully cool. “My observations over the past few days, mainly.”
“Such as…?”
“Back at your house the other night… you were crying as they led him away in cuffs.” His jaw clenches. “Then, after the firefight, your reaction when I told you he’d been grabbed by the Evanoffs. Again when you saw him earlier today in those photos… It’s pretty clear to me. You’re not over him.”
My eyes press closed as puzzle pieces click together in my mind. This totally explains why he’s been acting so hot and cold. Freezing up whenever the conversation shifts to Paul.
He thinks I want to get back together with my shithead husband.
I’d laugh, if I could summon even one ounce of amusement over this ridiculous misunderstanding.
“Conor, no. No.” I shake my head. “You’re completely off base. What you saw… the way I’ve reacted when talking about Paul… it’s…”
“What?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, your reactions look a lot like you’re still in love with him.”
“Are you serious?! Did you forget about the fact that I’ve been attempting to divorce the man for six months?”
“A legal separation isn’t the same as an emotional one.”
“I cannot believe this! You have lost your damn mind, Gallagher.” I laugh ludicrously, taking a few steps in his direction. “And I suppose the fact that I’ve filed a restraining order against him, and kicked him out of my house, and done everything physically possible to move on from him… that doesn’t count for anything in your book?”
His jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically. I can see he’s conflicted — torn between trusting my words and listening to his own instincts.
“Conor.” His name is a plea. “Do you honestly think, after everything that happened between us last night, that I still…” I trail off, too hurt to even finish the sentence.
“I don’t know what to believe, Shelby. You’re not exactly an open book when it comes to your emotions. You don’t confide in anyone — least of all me. You don’t let anyone in behind that wall you’ve built around yourself. And you know what? That wall might keep you protected, but it leaves everyone on the outside flying blind, having to guess everything you’re thinking and feeling.” He exhales sharply. “I like to think I can read you pretty well by now. But when it comes to this, I can’t rely only on instinct. I can’t play some guessing game with you until you’re finally ready to trust me. It’s too important. And it’s bigger than just you and me and your idiot ex.”
“Oh, that’s rich! You, Mr. Closed-Off, lecturing me about keeping people at arm’s length.”
“And yet, I’m not the one keeping secrets.”
“No, you’re the one throwing false accusations!”
“Look… if I’m off base, if I read things wrong… I’ll own it. Hell, I’ll throw a fucking parade to celebrate it.” He shakes his head and a lock of dark hair falls into his eyes. “But this situation isn’t exactly clear-cut. To put it bluntly, it’s a fucking mess. You and him are—”
“There is no me and him!” I snap. “Except, apparently, in your delusional alpha male brain!”
“You think I like thinking about this? You think I don’t hate the idea of you being with him? You think the thought of you going back to him doesn’t make me sick to my fucking stomach?” His words are ragged with emotion. “But Shelby, you were married to the man for ten years. That doesn’t just end because you take off your wedding ring and file some paperwork.”
I flinch back, deeply offended. “You don’t know a damn thing about what my marriage was like! About what he’s done to me! And, based on this conversation, I’m starting to think you don’t know a damn thing about me either!”
“Maybe I don’t.” He takes a step toward me, until only a foot remains between us. His eyes narrow dangerously. “Or maybe you’re just too embarrassed to admit you could ever want him back in your life after everything he’s done. Maybe you don’t want to be one of those weak, stand-by-your-man wives who never grows a backbone, even after being treated like a piece of property rather th—”
My hand flies out and slaps him clear across the face. It’s not a conscious action. It’s more of a reflex to hearing all those awful things — the same ones I’ve whispered to myself over and over in the mirror for years — coming out of his mouth instead of my own.
I just… I snapped.
And slapped.
I’m not sure who’s more stunned by the strike — me or him. My mouth falls open as I watch a bright red handprint blooming across his skin.
“Conor…” I breathe, instantly remorseful. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“I think we should hit pause on this discussion,” he growls tightly, turning away from me and striding from the room.
“Wait!” I call. “Conor, hold on!”
He keeps walking.
“Conor!” I yell, racing after him through the kitchen. I beat him to the door and plant myself against it, blocking his path.
“Hunt. Move.”
“No.” My chest is heaving. My eyes are locked on his. “Not until you listen.”
He’s watching me carefully. “You planning on slapping me again?”
I shake my head.
“You planning on evading with a cutesy dodge? Hiding behind more walls? Because I don’t have any interest in that.”
“Okay. How about the truth, then?” I swallow. “Do you have any interest in hearing that? Or are you only concerned with your skewed version of events?”
An angry muscle ticks in his jaw, but he doesn’t try to push past me. I take that as a sign he’s listening.
He wants a peek inside these high walls?
He wants me to trust him with my secrets?
Fine.
Here goes.
“The reason for the tears when they led Paul away wasn’t because I was sad to see him go. It was because I was ashamed,” I say haltingly. “Not of him. Of myself. Of the things I was feeling in that moment.”
Conor’s mouth opens, but I cut him off.
“No, not the feelings you accused me of. Not love or regret or sadness. Not some wifely duty or spousal obligation.” I shake my head. “You once asked me why I have this need to be perfect all the time. Why I like order and organization. Why I’m such a control freak.” My voice gets smaller, softer. “It’s because, for most of my marriage, I wasn’t the one in control. I was the one being controlled.”
His eyes darken. “Shelby—”
“Let me get this out, okay?” I swallow to clear the lump in my throat. “I was an insecure kid who grew into an even more insecure woman. I got married too young, to the first man who ever told me I was beautiful, because he checked all the right boxes of what I thought I was supposed to find in a husband. Good job, good provider, good head on his shoulders. He built me a home and gave me the support I needed to finally feel secure in my own skin. And, after a childhood spent as the chubby girl with mousy brown hair and highly critical parents… it was amazing to have someone who finally loved me for exactly who I was.” I pause and suck in a steadying breath. “But… a few years passed. I got older. I started to grow into a real person. A real woman, not the naive girl he married, with new interests and new friends and new aspirations. New confidence in myself. And… Paul didn’t like that so much. He didn’t like me so much. And he showed me. With his words. With his fists, too, when things got really bad.”
Conor makes a low sound of anger.
“You see, he wanted me to stay in that little box marked wife. To keep cutting myself down, inch by inch, until I fit the role he’d carved out for me.” My eyes have started watering. It’s a struggle to hold the tears at bay, so I tilt my head toward the ceiling. “And for a while, I tried. I let him keep me small. I let him keep me timid. I allowed him to take away my control, my autonomy, my dreams, telling myself it was for the sake of saving my marriage. But eventually… I couldn’t do it anymore.” My voice breaks. “Eventually, I realized I shouldn’t have to shrink to fit a relationship I’ve outgrown. A man I’ve outgrown. I shouldn’t have to make myself smaller just so he doesn’t feel insignificant when he’s standing beside me.”
A rogue tear escapes down my cheek. Before I can reach up to brush it away, Conor’s hand is there — cupping my face, warm and strong, his thumb stroking so gently it makes my breath catch. He doesn’t pull away, even when the tear is gone.
I hold his eyes and force myself to tell him the rest.
“These past few months… and especially these past few days… I don’t feel small. I don’t feel powerless. I don’t feel like I have to diminish parts of myself to make anyone else comfortable. For the first time in my life… I feel like me.”
He pulls in a sharp breath. “Shelby…”
“You saw me crying when they led Paul away. Again when I learned the Evanoffs had taken him. I know you think that means I was upset, or heartbroken, or grieving the loss of a man I still love… but the truth is, I was relieved. Relieved that, without Paul in my life anymore, I can finally move on. Can finally be free.” I crack a small smile, through my tears. “Free to set my own course. Free to be the person I’d like to be. And, maybe someday… free to be with someone else. Someone who understands me. Someone who actually does love me for exactly the person I am.”
The air goes still as I trail off. There’s a poignant beat of hesitation while I wait for his reaction. While I wait to see if letting him get a glimpse behind my walls is enough to send him running for the hills, or bring him back into the circle of my arms.
“Shelby,” he says simply.
And then he’s kissing me. Kissing me so fiercely, it makes me want to cry and scream and sing. Kissing me like I’m the air he needs to live, a vital ingredient for his means of survival.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes against my lips when he finally pulls away. “I’m sorry for what I said, for jumping to conclusions… for all of it.”
I remember the first time I saw him, thinking he was a man who didn’t know how to apologize. That he’d never in a million years take responsibility for his actions, even when he made a mistake.
I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.
“You know…” I bump my nose against his. “I believe you promised me that if we fought today, there would be hot makeup sex afterward. A package deal, if you will.”
His eyes gleam. “I think that can be arranged…”