Chapter Eleven

Hannah…

“Obviously it’s time to break out the cowboy boots again,” I say.

His lips, his really beautiful lips—I’ve always thought his lips were beautiful—curve. “And get back on the horse. There’s more than a few waiting on you in Sweetwater. How long has it been?”

“Too long,” I say, “it’s been too long,” and this time, I’m not just talking about a horse. I’m talking about so many things. It’s time I get a grip on every part of my life that’s been causing me pain, affecting who I am and how I interact with others. And the truth is that Roarke and Sweetwater represent those things. This festival is a blessing.

He offers me his hand again. “Need a hand?”

I don’t hesitate this time. I’m taking control and that means of everything, including what’s going on between the two of us. That means I don’t melt at the idea of touching him. I place my palm against his, and before I can even weigh my body’s reaction, it sways; I sway. Okay, I’m taking control after the wine stops taking control.

He catches my waist, his touch scorching. Lord help me, my nipples pucker. When was the last time I was that sensitive to a man’s touch? The answer is simple: the last time I was with him. We stand there, our heads low and together, our breathing the only sound between us, but there is so much more expanding in the thick Texas air: history, so much history. And friendship. This man was my best friend, and it would be a lie to say that I don’t miss him. Control isn’t lying to myself or even him. It’s owning what I feel and how I respond to what I feel. So yes. I miss him. I miss the him I knew before the him who hurt me.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says softly.

“Yes. Let’s.” I rotate and face the truck again, stepping up on the ledge, but not before I check my heel. The minute I hike myself upward, Roarke is right there, holding onto me, making sure I get inside this time.

Roarke doesn’t linger. He shuts me inside. Maybe he needs a breather, too, because Lord only knows, I’m suffocating from him and all the history, all the damn feelings. Control is my goal, and suffocating does not get me there. He’s slow to round the truck, but finally, he opens the door and climbs inside. The air thickens, and the cab light slowly dims. There was no slow dim for us. There was no slow start for us. It might have seemed that way to some. We were friends. We were neighbors. I was too young for him, six years his junior. I always had a crush on him, but then I was home for a summer, and college just seemed to erase the years that divided us.

He starts the truck, the sound jolts me back to the present, and that’s a good thing. I was about to go down a rabbit hole of locked lips and passion with this man. No. I was about to go down a rabbit hole of emotion. Sex is not emotion. He taught me that lesson.

“Where’s your hotel?” I ask.

“The Ashton, a few miles up the road.” He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t say anything more.

I sink lower into my seat, and I wonder now if he’s regretting the decision to take me to his hotel. If he dreads the confrontation he’s invited? He probably does. He probably thinks I’m still that into him. My behavior has said nothing less. I’ve shown him that he still has that much control over me. And he’s right. Or he was. He did. Tonight, that ends. Tonight, I get my closure, and so does he.

It’s not long before he pulls the truck into the hotel parking lot. I don’t sit there all awkward. Maybe it’s the power of wine, but my leash is off. I open the door and climb out of the truck, and my heel doesn’t even think about getting stuck this time. Trucks are my history, and no pair of high heels, and certainly no man, no matter how hot, no matter how sexy all his dark hair and dreamy eyes are, gets to take that or anything from me. Even my damn boss took my career. Maybe I should have stayed and fought harder. Or maybe I just needed an excuse to come back home.

I slam the door shut, and Roarke is already standing in front of me, his handsome face hidden by shadows. He catches the fingers of one of my hands and walks me to him, the charge between us electric, just like it always was. Even before we were an us, before we were engaged, in love, and planning a damn wedding, when we still denied we were more than friends, the current between us was alive. This time, though, I’m not looking for a Prince Charming. This isn’t another Cinderella story.

“When we go inside,” he begins.

“Let’s just go inside,” I say, because I want him to know that I’m not running as he accused. I don’t need to run from anyone or anything.

His eyes narrow, his expression unreadable, but his reaction is without further delay. Still holding my hand, he folds our arms at the elbow, aligning our bodies and placing us in motion. There is no question that we are, in this moment of time, ex-lovers, still burning alive for each other, but there is also no question that for me, this is about burning it out. No. It’s about burning it out my way, not his. Whatever happens when we walk in that hotel, I’m going to own it when I walk out; it will be my decision.

We enter the lobby, and Roarke doesn’t even pause, nor do I want him to pause. His pace is steady, our pace is steady, and he leads me to the elevator. I find that I’m not nervous. Why would I be? I’ve known this man my entire life. In fact, I’m more alive right now than I have been in a long time. Anger begins to take shape, a ball in my belly that grows and flows through my body. Yes, I’m angry. I’m really angry with this man, and I realize now that I have never allowed myself that emotion. I felt pain after his betrayal. I felt hurt, but I never let myself be mad. It’s a liberating emotion, rather than defeating like everything else I’ve engaged in since our breakup. It’s freedom, too. I’m not to blame for the past, and while he might owe me answers, why would I ask for them? What do answers solve? Nothing. Nothing he can say will change what happened. Nothing he can say will turn back time. Nothing he can say will make me put a ring back on my finger. And that’s okay. For the first time since I left, that’s really okay.

We reach the elevator, and he jabs the button. The doors open, and he doesn’t let go of me, like he believes I’ll run away. The more I think about that accusation on his behalf, the more that anger bubbles inside me, a kettle of built-up thoughts and feelings, waiting to boil over. He simply turns us and walks me backward into the elevator. He swipes his keycard and punches in a floor. I don’t know if I want to yell at him or push him against the wall and kiss him. I don’t do either. The doors shut, and we face each other, our hands and elbows still joined. And we just stare at each other, and that’s when I feel the push and pull of emotions, his emotions. He wants to try to explain the past. He needs to try to explain. But that’s not what I need. That’s not what I want. That is not where I find my zen, whatever that really even is—my center, I guess.

The elevator halts, and as we wait for the doors to open, I feel the tension rising inside me. I don’t want to hear his reasons why. I don’t want to revisit what I felt back then. I will not listen. I pull my hand away from his and turn to the door. It opens, and I’m in the hallway in an instant. Roarke steps to my side and motions down the hallway. I’m going to his hotel room. I could ask for my own. I could ask, or even insist that we go downstairs, but those things don’t work for me. I know what does.

We reach the door, and he swipes his card, pushing open the door. Without hesitation, I enter the room, and I don’t even see the space before me. I whirl around to face him, and when he shuts the door and locks it, I’m right there waiting. The minute he turns to face me, I’m standing in front of him, pushing him against the door. “I don’t want to hear why. Ever. Do not open your mouth and give me a reason because it will only piss me off. It’s done. That part of us is done. We are—”

He catches my hips and turns me. Now my back is against the wall, and his powerful thighs cage mine, his hands cupping my face. “We are anything but done,” he says, and then his mouth is on my mouth, his tongue licking past my teeth, caressing deep.

I moan with the taste of him, wicked and wrong and yet oh so right. I want this. I want him, but this has to be on my terms. I shove on his chest, tearing my mouth from his. “This means nothing. You aren’t forgiven. We aren’t us again. We aren’t—”

“We never stopped being us, Hannah. If that’s not obvious to you, it is to me. I’ll show you.”

“Don’t show me. Just—just kiss me.”

“I don’t need to be told twice. Not where you’re concerned.” And then he’s kissing me again, and I don’t stop him this time because if I do, I’ll think too hard, and that’s not an option. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel this man close, one last time. That’s all.

One.

Last.

Time.

A proper goodbye.

The one I never had.

The one we never had.