The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(8)

A wave of pain and bitterness swells in my chest, so big and tight, I stand there staring at the sheet of rain that’s pouring off the awning, unable to get my breath, and think I might fucking pass out.

With shaking hands, I dig in my pocket for one of those stupid pills—that shit my therapist in Tribeca recommended as a “low-risk” anti-anxiety med. I pop it in my mouth, then look around. In my current, brainless state, all I can manage is to step into the rain and lift my head up. I swallow a gulp of nasty rainwater and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.

Idiot.

For more reasons than one. Ever since I moved back, I forget to check my fucking weather app. I check it now, just for shits and giggles, while I wait for the deluge to let up.

The second the app pops up, I remember why I’ve been avoiding it.

‘Ruff, ruff! Meow! Hey, kid! Cover up your head! It’s raining cats and dogs!’

I shut my eyes for just a moment—while they sting. Then I press my fingertip to the symbol, and I magic it away.

Deleted.

Gone.

I grit my teeth and inhale deeply, praying that the dagger in my chest will ease up—maybe—one day.

Fuck.

Serves you right, I tell myself as I rub a palm over my hair, then duck my head and step into the driving rain.

The shock of getting soaked clears my head out, so when I reach my bike, I’m feeling clear enough to drive. I pull my helmet on and start off slow out of the lot. I’m shivering in my t-shirt before I reach the first red light—the one by the catfish statue.

Fucking Southern winters. So wet and gray and—

Movement to my left catches my eye, and I look under the old hotel awning just in time to see someone on a bicycle wipe out.

Fucking shit, man. That was brutal.

The light turns green, but I don’t let off the brake. My stomach clenches as I watch the biker struggle to her feet, then stoop back down in the shadow of the hotel’s balcony…

A horn honks, and I go on through the yellow light. I drive past the hotel, then make a U-turn in front of the Azalea Mart, pointing myself toward the Fate Hotel, now on my right. There’s a vacant parallel spot not too far from where I saw the woman, and before I’ve taken time to think, I’m walking on the sidewalk toward…yeah, that’s Marley.

She’s now on her hands and knees in a puddle of what might be milk, gathering groceries that went flying underneath the hotel’s awning. From my angle, she’s just a shadow, sporting a red hue from a nearby traffic light.

The closer I get to her, the heavier I feel. Heavier still when I realize that I know that bike. She’s riding a bicycle I bought her: bright, light blue, with hot pink handlebar grips. And, apparently now, a little basket on the front.

As I near her, she looks up. When she notices I’m me, she freezes with her hand stretched toward a yogurt packet.

“Hey…” I sink down to my knee beside her, even as I wonder what the fuck I’m doing. “You okay?” Fuck, my voice sounds rusty.

“Just fine, hero. You can be on your way now.”

I look at the sidewalk around her, wet from rain and milk, and strewn with groceries. Two of her plastic grocery bags look shredded by their impact with the cement.

After a second’s hesitation, my conscience—or the ghost of it—kicks in. I pull my leather bike pack off and hold it out. “Why don’t you use this? You can wear it and—”

“No thank you.” Her face, striped with sopping strands of hair, looks tight and angry.

“C’mon. I’m sorry I—”

“I said no thanks.” Her face lifts, showing me hard brown eyes and a hard jaw. “Thank you for stopping, you can go now.”

But her voice sounds shaky. I might have found my calling as an asshole recently, but I’m not leaving her amidst a bunch of broken groceries in the fucking rain.

I look around, and start to gather dish soap, cheese—

“Stop! Put that down!”

I blink at Mar, and heat moves through me.

“Fine.” I set the items down beside her and stand, assessing her from up above. Finding neither blood nor bruises, I step back.

But I can’t seem to make my feet move. Fuck. I take my backpack off. Keeping my gaze averted, I lean down and set it out in front of her. “In case you need an extra bag.”

I move fast, and when she calls my name, I keep on moving.





4





Marley





What a stupid, stupid morning. I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours, and already, I’m dreaming of my loft back in Chicago. My cozy, queen-sized bed; the heated, cement floors; the pigeons that would greet me and my coffee on the balcony that overlooked the riverwalk.

Fuck me.

Damn it.

I stick my hand under the kitchen faucet, letting the water sting my scraped-up hand, then pumping soap into my burning palm. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Gabe and his stupid fucking pork chops.

What on God’s green earth is wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?

He gave me his leather backpack, too. God. I want to scream—or cry. I suck back deep breaths.

All around me, on the floor, are my ruined groceries. The ones that busted open, leaked, or otherwise were damaged. The ones I’ll have to throw away before I head back to my mom’s.