More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(108)

“You’re a fucking loser, Spade,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. And he relished the look of utter shock and confusion on the man’s face.

“Now, hold on a goddamned—”

“You’re a sad and pathetic little bastard who doesn’t deserve a moment more of my consideration.”

Harris got up and allowed himself one last look at the guy who had unknowingly influenced his life for so long before he walked out.

He was done with the past. He had a future to get to.

Tina’s phone rang just after midnight, while she was brewing a cup of chamomile tea, and she fumbled in her robe pocket for the vibrating device. Her eyes widened when she saw the name on the screen, and she answered immediately.

“Harris.”

“Hey, Bean. I figured you’d be up.”

Of course she was up; dinner service had ended just an hour ago.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages,” she accused, feeling pissed off and weepy and so damned happy to hear his voice.

“I haven’t. I read every single one of them,” he said, his voice hushed. “And listened to all your voice notes. I’ve watched every clip of you and Fletcher about a million times.”

“Why?” she asked on a whisper.

“Why? Because I’ve missed you, Tina. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice was quivering, and Tina chewed at her lower lip. Not sure what to say. “I thought it would be better, for both of us, if we maybe . . . ceased contact for a while.”

“Why?” She could hear the plaintive note in her voice.

“Because this was supposed to be your fresh start, Bean. How could you have a fresh start with me around?”

“How could I not? You’re an important part of my life, Harris.” The most important part. “I wanted to talk, to figure things out. But before I could say a word, you were dressed and spouting so much self-righteous garbage. And then you were gone. And absolutely nothing since then.”

“What did you want to talk about, Tina?” he asked, his voice brimming with something that sounded like hope. “What did you want to figure out?”

“Well . . . us.”

There was a long, long silence on the other end of the line, and when he spoke again, his voice was choked with emotion.

“And is there still an us to talk about?”

“Of course there is, Harris. There will always be an us.”

“I’m so damned happy to hear that, Tina. I thought . . . I thought I screwed it all up.”

“You nearly did.” Tina grabbed a dish towel and mopped up her tears.

“We’ll talk about it—about us—very soon, okay?”

“We can talk about it . . .”

He hung up, and she ripped her phone from her ear and glared at it, resisting the temptation to fling it at the wall. He had hung up on her. How dare he? Why wouldn’t he just talk to her?

Tears were still seeping down her cheeks, and she glared at her cooling tea, wondering if she should call him back. But she was working herself up into a righteous anger right now, and she told herself that he had hung up on her. And if he wanted to talk, he could damned well call back!

Tina cried herself to sleep that night and woke the following morning feeling groggy and exhausted. She dragged herself out of bed, pushed her feet into her fuzzy slippers, and padded into the kitchen for her coffee.

The spring mornings were a lot warmer and more fragrant, with the smell of jasmine scenting the air, than those few mornings she had shared on the porch with Harris. But that didn’t make her miss him less. Instead she often wished he were there to enjoy the changing temperature and the spring blossoms with her.

For a second, she contemplated not going out after all. Feeling raw after last night’s confusing conversation with Harris. But she shook her head, determined not to let his odd behavior spoil this one perfect moment in her day.

Greyson was sitting on the porch steps, his back to her, and she shut her eyes, not in the mood to see the near-exact physical replica of the man she loved.

It had taken a long time for Tina to admit to that love, but she had come home one night after dinner service, lonely and missing him with everything in her. And it had simply been there: a quiet acknowledgment of the undeniable truth.

Of course she loved him. Why else would she miss him so much? Why else would she yearn for his company, the touch of his hands on her body, the whisper of his voice in her ear?

She loved him. She had for a long time . . . and she would for the rest of her life.

For so long she had tried to protect herself from strong emotions, from the pain that loving and losing someone could cause. She had cut herself off from those who cared about her and then believed herself inherently flawed and no longer capable of experiencing true depth of feeling.

But what she hadn’t recognized was that all those past experiences—the pain and loss, the humiliation and anguish—had forged her into someone strong enough to love with everything in her.

When she thought of the times Harris had told her he loved her, she felt searing regret that she had believed herself incapable of responding in kind. When all along there had been this wealth of love simmering mere inches below the surface.

She stepped out onto the porch and sat down on her swing.

“Morning, Greyson,” she said, hoping he would gather, from her subdued tone of voice, that she was not feeling sociable.