Fighting Shadows (On the Ropes #2)(47)

After sucking in a deep breath, he released it on a gravelly demand. “And I want her back.”

My breath hitched.

I’d waited three years to hear those words.

If only I could trust them.

“Flint, please.”

“Don’t you dare ‘please’ me. I have spent years of my life looking for you.” He leaned away to catch my eyes, but I was looking anywhere but at him.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, and in an unexpected show of gentleness, he used the pads of his thumbs to dry them.

“Why are you here?” I whined, dropping my chin to my chest.

He scoffed at my question. “To take you home.”

My head snapped up, and the tears slowed. “I am home.”

Then the most amazing thing happened; the angry man standing in front of me melted away. His entire face softened, and his voice lowered. “Not anymore. Your home is with me now.”

He wasn’t wrong. It always had been.

I had been back to Flint’s apartment no less than a thousand times over the years—never physically, but always in my dreams. And not the ones I made up, either.

A week after I’d left, as I’d slept in my car at a truck stop, I’d had my very first dream. It was the most amazing thing I had ever experienced.

Until I’d woken up.

Then it had been agonizing.

But each night as I’d laid my head on whatever makeshift pillow I’d had, those dreams kept coming—louder, stronger, and more painful every time. They were never the same, but they always started in his apartment and ended with him walking away.

Despite all the years I had wished for those late-night fairytales, I would have given anything to get rid of them. For those hours of slumber, Flint and I were perfect. We had a life together. One where he was walking and I was laughing. One where he touched me every opportunity he got and I snuggled into his chest just for fun.

One where we were in love.

Then, when I would open my eyes, those dreams made the empty reality of my life that much harder. Which was why his being in that conference room scared me to death. I’d survived losing him once; I wasn’t sure I could do it again. He might have been searching for three years, but I had been running and carrying the staggering weight of my memories of him with every step. I couldn’t make any more memories with him. Not even that one, where his hard body touched mine and his every exhale breezed across my skin. I couldn’t bear to add it to my already overflowing burden.

No matter how deeply I enjoyed it.

“Please leave,” I squeaked out, ducking under his arm.

He pushed off the wall and staggered back two steps, roughly sitting as if he couldn’t possibly have stood there any longer. Interesting. But I didn’t have time to focus on it right then; that would have to wait until I lay in bed after he’d left and cried for days.

“Ash, stop. Just hear me out.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you expected when you came here today, but I’m not the same girl you remember. I have a life, Flint. Sure, we had fun for, like, a month or so a while back, but I’ve really moved on. I have a boyfriend. Things are just starting to get serious.”

He flinched, but I continued.

“Yes. I live in a homeless shelter, but I love it here. The people are great, and I feel like I’m really making a difference.” I smiled, and it was real—not because I was telling the truth, but rather because it was aimed at him.

The hopeful expression in his eyes when he glanced down at my smile barely covered the pain my lies had carved on his face.

His beautiful, beautiful face.

Flint was even more gorgeous than I remembered. His thin frame was covered with layers upon layers of muscles I could have touched for hours without feeling them all. Gone was that crazy wannabe beard. His strong jaw was covered with a five-o’clock shadow I was dying to feel brushed over my skin while his mouth trailed kisses over my breasts. I envisioned thrusting my hands into his jet-black hair, which was so neatly styled that James Dean would have been jealous.

Not everything was different though. Those piercing, blue eyes were exactly the same as I’d envisioned every single time I had ever touched myself.

He wasn’t a nineteen-year-old boy anymore.

He was Flint Page, the man.

And I was still Ash Mabie, the criminal who wasn’t good enough for him.

“I have to go,” I whispered and then bolted for the door.

“Stop running from me,” he growled.

“I can’t do this.” I pushed down on the handle only for it to remain in place.

What the hell?

I jiggled it again but achieved the same result.

“Judy!” I yelled, knocking on the door. “Judy!”

Her muffled voice spoke from the other side of the wood. “You’re lying to him. You don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Judy! Open the door.” I looked over my shoulder to find Flint donning a pair of black crutches that wrapped around his forearms. “Open the door!”

I continued to fight with the worthless handle, and Judy continued to spill all of my secrets.

“I read that book you are always writing in. You’re not happy here and you do love that boy. Stop lying to him and hear him out.”

“Shut up!” I screamed as Flint closed in on me.