Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(82)

She’s good. She’s smart. She’s f*cking fierce.

Honestly, I’m glad she told me off. I was being a dick, and she called me on it. The woman I’m in love with is strong enough to insist I treat her the way she deserves.

I haven’t. I haven’t told her anything about me, my life, my family, my people, because I’ve been afraid she’d use it against me. Pick me apart. Break me open.

But why would she do that? She’s not my father. Not my enemy.

She’s Caroline.

Three weeks without her has taught me the same thing I should have figured out in the eighteen months since I met her: That she’s amazing. That I’m in love with her. That passion feels fantastic.

Loving Caroline hasn’t thrown me off a cliff.

I’m still me. Not my father. Not my mother.

If I get called home, I’m going, because I have to. It’s not negotiable.

I don’t know what’s going to happen before then—not with Caroline and me or with anything, really. I could have to leave tomorrow. I could get bite it in a convenience store holdup. We could all die from f*cking bird flu.

But tonight, it’s Valentine’s Day.

If the world ends in the morning, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure it ends with Caroline in my bed, her hair on my pillow, my hands on her ass.

And I mean that in the most romantic possible way.



I’m at her door, a dozen cheap gas-station roses clutched in my hand. I smell like sweat and dishwasher steam, and she’s in her pajamas, her eyes slitted against the brightness of the hallway.

I woke her up.

I woke Bridget up.

If I stand here long enough, I’ll probably wake up half the hall, and I don’t give a f*ck.

“What do you want to know?”

“What?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

“Tell me what you want to know. Ask me a question, I’ll answer it. I’m an open book.”

Her hair’s all snarled at the crown of her head. I want to smooth it down, kiss her, take her in my arms.

Too soon. Too soon, even if this works out. And if it doesn’t … I can’t think about that.

“You’re an open book,” she repeats. She must be waking up, because she injects some skepticism into the words.

“Anything you want to know.”

“Let’s start with why you’re here at—what time is it?”

“Eleven thirty-five.”

“At eleven thirty-five at night on Valentine’s Day”—and here she kind of eye-rolls at the bouquet in my hand—“when you haven’t called me or texted me or given the least sign you remember I’m alive in almost a month.”

“Twenty-two days.”

“You’re counting?”

“I can tell you how many hours if you want.”

“Because …”

“Because when it comes to you, I’m a f*cking moron. More than you know. Probably in a bunch of ways you don’t have a clue about.”

That almost makes her smile. I can see her lips twitch. She decides not to allow it, but lip twitching is a good sign, so I barrel on. “Look, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I would’ve come sooner, but I was on at the restaurant, and there was this couple who came in right before ten and stayed for f*cking ever, so this was the soonest I could get here. I guess I should have come tomorrow, but …”

… but I couldn’t stand it anymore.

… but I needed to see you.

… but once I made up my mind, I didn’t want to wait even four seconds longer than I had to.

“I brought you roses.” I hold them out, the only gift I’ve ever given her, blood red and, I hope, so cheesy she has to like them.

“I see that.”

I wait for her to say something more, give me a clue how I’m doing here. She scrubs her hands over her face—something I’ve seen her do a hundred times at the bakery to wake herself up.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, Mr. All-of-a-Sudden-I’m-an-Open-Book. Where are you from?”

“Oregon.”

“What town, idiot.”

“Silt.”

“You’re from a place called Silt?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like there?”

“It’s close to Coos Bay, which is on the ocean. Coos is pretty—they get tourists. Silt is farther inland. It’s kind of …” A shithole. “There’s not much to it.”

“So do you have parents, or are you, like, the product of spontaneous generation?”

She’s teasing, but not really. My family’s a sore spot between us, and she’s pushing right into it. “Everyone has parents, Caro.”

Bridget says from somewhere in the darkness, “Don’t forget, you can slam the door on his foot.”

I think about pulling my foot back, but I’ll risk it. “I’ve got a mom. My dad’s … not around. Most of the time. Which is much better for everybody involved. He’s … bad news.”

She meets my eyes, a slight pucker between her eyebrows. Fully awake now—this is how she looks in class. Listening hard enough to hear everything I’m not saying in between the things I am. “What’s her name?”