Written with You (The Regret Duet #2)(34)

Okay. Whoa.

I shouldn’t have said it. I was toeing the line. His line. But damn, I was sick of keeping my mouth shut for the sake of not making waves. I wasn’t Rosalee’s mother, but he was allowing me to be a part of her life. We hadn’t talked about long-term. We hadn’t actually talked about anything past Mondays and Thursdays. But he was coming to my house twice a week and something had to give.

Snaking a hand out, I grabbed his forearm. “You know what? I was willing to accept all of your hate when you thought I was Hadley. She deserved that. But now that you know I’m Willow, you are not allowed to throw in my face the things she did. I couldn’t control my sister any more than you could control your father.”

His eyes flashed wide, and I knew I’d cut him deep, but it had to be said.

“I am sorry, okay?” I continued. “I can’t say that enough. What I did was wrong. But I did it for the right reasons and you will never be able to convince me otherwise. So, if you want to hate me, go for it. Hate me for me. Hate me because I remind you of that terrible day. Hate me because—”

He moved fast. His hand went to the back of my neck, his fingers sifting into my hair. I stumbled back and his large body pinned me against the wall. I ignited with need as his head dipped low, his mouth only a breath away.

“The only reason I hate you is because I can’t figure out how to fucking hate you at all.”

I sucked in a sharp breath, chills exploding over my skin as his words sank in soft as a feather and sharp as a knife igniting a wildfire of hope inside my hollow chest.

He didn’t hate me.

I’d cried myself to sleep more times than I could count, missing him and wishing I could fight for the only man I’d ever wanted, but he was always so stoic and angry. Sure, he’d said that he was falling in love with me, but I’d assumed that my deception had made it just as easy for him to fall out of it.

But maybe that was our biggest problem of all.

Assumptions were made based on how a person perceived something.

And never, since day one, had Caven and I perceived things in the same light.

“Caven,” I whispered, gripping his hips. “Please. Just talk to me. If you don’t hate me, then—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he seethed, his mouth inching impossibly closer like a magnet that had met its polar opposite.

His hand came up, cupping my jaw and forcing my head back. I gasped and his gaze immediately dropped to my mouth.

“I want to hate you,” he hissed. “I want to stop thinking about you. I want to stop fucking staring at you for two goddamn nights every week.” His mouth hovered over mine, not touching. Nothing but an exchange of air as I panted, thick with desire. “I want to forget the way you felt. I want to forget the way I felt. I want you not to have lied to me. And I want to stop feeling so fucking guilty because you had to.”

My body sagged, and I forced my mouth closed, fearful of what was about to come out. It was going to be some variation of Caven, I love you and then a tear-filled plea for him to give us another chance. But I couldn’t stand the idea that it was only going to be one more thing to add to his list of what he wanted to forget.

The hope that only seconds earlier had sung in my veins turned into a toxic sludge, poisoning me with every beat of my shattered heart. In a lot of ways, it was easier to accept that Caven and I were over when I thought I was the only one hurting. I’d spent a lifetime in agony; I could handle it. But seeing him there, so close, his anger nothing but a mask to hide the pain—it was a blistering torture I never could have prepared for.

I had no way to fix it. This was my storm. My disaster. All I could do was let him know that I’d be waiting in the rain if he ever changed his mind.

I gave his hips a squeeze. “I’m here, Caven. If you want to call. Text. Come over. Yell at me. Whatever you need. I’m here. But I am begging you. Please, whatever you do, just don’t forget how it felt when we were together.”

His gaze once again found my mouth, his fingers biting deliciously into my jaw as he held me in place. “Oh, don’t worry, Willow. Forgetting you has been an eighteen-year-long process I’ve never been able to master. I’ll remember you until the day I die. At this rate, it might even be what kills me.” With that, he suddenly let me go, opened the door, and walked into my bedroom, calling out, “Rosalee. It’s time to leave.”

I stood there, my chest heaving as I watched him exit my bedroom with his hand wrapped around his daughter’s. It was all I could do to follow them downstairs on shaky legs. He didn’t look at me again as I hugged her goodbye.

He didn’t even acknowledge me as I waved and called out for them to have a good night.

And four days later when he brought her back, he pretended nothing had happened. Which just meant he went back to pretending he hated me.





WILLOW


“Shit. Sorry,” he said as my face collided with his chest.

I winced and not because my nose had taken the brunt of the full-body collision, but rather because my already shitty day had taken a turn for the worse.

That morning, a week after Caven had shredded me with the joyous news that he didn’t actually hate me, I found myself in need of a mop and a metric shit-ton of bleach. Why a mop and enough bleach to burn the hairs off my nostrils ten times over? Because my incredible finished studio complete with a unicorn mural and every single piece of art work Rosalee had ever made was covered in shit. Literal shit.