Wherever It Leads(92)

He doesn’t peruse my body like he once did. He doesn’t try to remove my clothes, make me combust under his gaze. Instead, his eyes plead with mine, burn into me with all the angst he’s apparently holding inside.

I remind myself not to cave. That things between us are different now and they’ll never be the same. They won’t. They can’t. And as much as I want to run to him, press my face against his chest and feel his arms wrap around me, that’s impossible now.

Fenton starts to speak but catches himself. With a slight shake of his head, like he’s unsure what to say or how to act, he takes a couple of tentative steps towards me.

“How are you?” I ask, my voice pitchy.

“Fine,” he says, extending his hand to mine. “How are you?”

“Fine.” I watch his hand dangle in the air between us. I don’t take it. Taking it would be insinuating that we are at some sort of level like we were before, that touching is okay. I can’t break that boundary.

His hand drops to his side. “Come this way.” He turns and heads to the little table by the windows. I follow a few steps behind, watching him move in front of me. His posture is rigid, his shirt slightly wrinkled in the back.

He pulls out a chair and I sit before he takes the one across from me. There’s no food, just two glasses of red wine and one candle that’s been pushed off to the side. There’s nothing between the two of us besides the expanse of the table itself.

He catches me noticing and clears his throat. “I didn’t order. If you want something, we can get it. I just thought . . .”

“No, you’re right. I don’t want anything either.”

“Did you get my letter?”

“Yes.”

He blows out a deep breath and the candle flickers with the force of the exhale. The exhaustion in his face, the stress in his body kills me, and my resistance crumbles a bit. I realize what Presley said while she helped me get ready is true—this is so hard because I do love him.

Fenton glances at his watch and forces a swallow. “I’m just going to cut to the chase.”

“Sounds good.”

“Everything I’ve told you is the truth. I want you to know that.” His voice is firm, controlled, his eyes boring into mine. “From how Brady started working for me to what happened with him in Zimbabwe, to how hard I’ve worked to get him back to how I knew you were you and when I knew it—it’s all the absolute truth, Brynne. I might be guilty of omitting the truth, but I have never lied to you. My omissions may have been the wrong thing to do, they probably were the wrong thing to do, but I did it because I knew there was a chance you’d leave me and I didn’t want that. I knew it would feel like this.” He chuckles to himself. “No, it feels worse than I even imagined.”

His face falls and so does my heart.

“I have never felt this way about a woman. Never. I’ve never considered that I’d ever feel the way I saw my father look at my mother. And now I know without a doubt what that feels like because that’s how I feel when I look at you. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life but that—seeing that look on your face—it’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with.”

“Fenton . . .”

“Let me finish, please.” He looks at his watch again and takes a deep breath. “I want you to know I love you. And not because you hate me or because I feel guilty or because I feel like I wronged you or want you to absolve me of guilt. I love you because . . . my life is better with you in it. Because you make me want to be a better man. Because you blur things. Because when you’re around, I feel like things are the way they’re supposed to be.” He forces a swallow, a few beads of sweat dotting his forehead. “Because you make me want to do anything I can, without fail, to protect you and give you everything that makes you happy.”

Tears burn my eyes as I watch his absolute sincerity. My resolve crumbles because I know he means it, and I feel the same way.

“I knew better,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Better than what?”

“Better than to fall in love with you.” My words flutter through the air and he smiles as they hit him, and I can’t help but smile back. “Even if I believe you and that you were going to tell me—because I want to believe you, Fenton, I do. Even if I do, there’s still this part of me that will always wonder about what you knew about Brady. I can’t—”

A loud knock raps through the room and we both jump. My arm knocks over one of the glasses of wine and it spills off the table and onto the floor, splashing as it hits. The sound pitters through the room, an eerie, steady background to the chaos ensuing in front of us.

The sweat on his forehead increases two-fold and he reaches for my hand. His eyes drill into mine. “Listen to me. I love you. Okay? No matter what happens, you have to know that.”

“What’s going on?”

“Brynne,” he pleads. “Do you hear me? I love you. I. Love. You—”

The knock sounds again and echoes through the room again, cutting him off. My heart is in my throat, my legs shaking as I try to stand as Fenton does.

The next few seconds play out in a whirlwind, and I can only stand by and watch as the door swings open. Fenton shoots me one final glance and braces himself.