More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(38)

“The living room window was open,” he said, his brow lowering in displeasure. “You should be more careful with security, Tina. You could have been burgled, or murdered in your sleep. Check all windows and doors next time.”

“Lesson learned,” she said pointedly.

His lips lifted in an unrepentant grin. “You were screaming bloody murder—nothing would have kept me out. In fact, I tried to break down the door before it occurred to me to have a quick look around the house.”

“Break down the door?” she repeated, appalled. “It’s solid oak. You could have broken your arm.”

“More like bruised my ego,” he said wryly, wincing as he massaged and squeezed his left bicep. Tina gasped and reached over to switch on her bedside lamp to get a better look at the massive bruise forming there.

“You idiot,” she chastised, barely curbing the impulse to punch him on the same bruised shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that you were screaming, and I would have moved mountains to get to you.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t entirely sure what else to say about that. His smile took on a hint of sadness, and he hesitantly reached out to cup the side of her face in one of his large palms.

“I wish you wouldn’t hate me.” The words were soft and wistful. Tina placed a hand over his and shook her head helplessly.

“I don’t hate you, Harris. Not really. I just . . . it’s very hard for me to be around you. It brings back too many heartbreaking memories.”

“I can’t remember exactly what was said that night, but I remember the gist of it, and I do know that I would never intentionally have hurt you, Tina. I honestly liked you . . . I liked everything about you. But before seeing you that night, I lacked the courage to approach you.”

“You weren’t exactly lacking in self-esteem, Harris,” she said, removing her hand from his. “I find it hard to believe that you needed courage to approach me.”

“You were my best friend’s sister. We grew up together—you were smart and funny and sweet. Approaching you with any kind of sexual intent could never be casual, and I was a foolish twenty-year-old. Anything more than casual sex was a terrifying prospect. I wasn’t ready for anything serious.”

“So you used a bet to bolster your courage?”

“I don’t remember even agreeing to the fucking bet.” She scoffed at those words, and he shook his head helplessly, lowering his hand from her face and dropping it to the pillow on his lap. Sincerity shone from his eyes. “I know you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either. But it’s the truth. I remember seeing you—you looked so beautiful in that little red dress—and I recall thinking that I didn’t care what Smith thought, what anybody thought. I wanted to be with you. Jonah handed me a drink as I led you to the patio . . . I drank it because I wanted him out of my face. I wanted to concentrate on only you. But everything after we danced and kissed is a blur. I can recollect only snippets of what followed. I know I was as excited as a fourteen-year-old with his first crush. And that, combined with everything else, made me fumble like a fucking amateur. I barely even remember the act. I woke up and you were naked next to me, and I was devastated because I knew I’d fucked up what should have been a great experience for both of us.

“I don’t know how I wound up in my dad’s study; there are fragments of Jonah and Schaeffer and the rest of those assholes throwing money at me. I can’t tell you exactly what was said . . . just words, a few jumbled sentences. But the shit I remember . . .” He shook his head, his voice sounding absolutely wretched. “It was bad, and—fuck—it kills me to know you overheard all of that. When you confronted me afterward, I didn’t initially know why you were so angry. I clearly remember you hitting me. But I was so confused and disoriented. I think I passed out shortly afterward. But when I woke up and pieced everything together the next morning, I was gutted when I understood what had happened and what you must have overheard.”

“This is all a bit much, Harris. I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” She shook her head, not sure how she felt about this confession. Not sure she had ever wanted to know all of this. It didn’t change the end result: the impact it had had on her life and on her self-worth and her plans for university and a career.

“I wanted you to know that not everything about that night was a lie,” he said, and she swallowed audibly.

“How could you have liked me? When everybody else made fun of me for being a fat, awkward carrot head?” She didn’t know why she had asked that question; she didn’t want to revert back to the insecure teen that she had once been. Always so self-conscious about her hair and her body and her freckles.

“You have the most amazing hair. It fascinates me; it’s like fire. I always imagined touching it would scald my flesh . . . it was a turn-on. And you had—have—amazing tits, and don’t get me started on that gorgeous ass of yours. And over the years you’ve only grown more stunning. Those tight damned dresses you wear have been a form of personal torment for way too long. You have no idea how often I was left hot and bothered and hard after seeing you at some function or the other.”

He was referring to the wiggle—or pencil—dresses she had discovered after deciding to embrace rather than disguise her curves. She loved those dresses: they made her feel sexy and seductive, showcasing her full breasts and rounded hips and butt while emphasizing her indented waist. They showed off her figure to its advantage.