Brave Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #3)(57)

“I appreciate it, Ro, but there’s not much you can do on this one, I don’t think.”

“Maybe not by myself, but you can’t forget that I have help. Valuable help.”

“What kind of ‘valuable help’?”

“I have the help of a woman.” He winks at me and takes a long draw from his beer.

My curiosity is piqued. A woman’s perspective might actually be beneficial. “Maybe you’re not so useless after all.”

“Right?”

“So what does Katie say about all this?”

“She asked what you’d done. I told her. She cursed you for the sake of all women for about ten minutes, but then she told me to tell you to figure out what’s standing in your way.”

I feel deflated. That’s no help at all.

“Lies. The past. Things I can’t change. But I already knew that.”

“She thought you might say that. She said to ask you if there was anything you could do to prove yourself wrong.”

“To prove myself wrong?”

“Prove yourself wrong. Or maybe it was to prove yourself worthy. I can’t remember now.”

I grab a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar behind me and throw them at him. “Useless. Asshat.”

I still can’t help smiling when he starts laughing.

“Seriously, though, man. Go see her. Let her see how miserable you are. If that doesn’t snap her out of it, then . . .”

“Then what? I’m screwed, right?”

“You might be.”

“I’ll go by again, but I’m not holding my breath that she’ll even open the door. No, Katie’s right. I need to prove myself to her. I just don’t have a damn clue how to do that.”

“It’ll come to you, Tag. But until then, go see her. It can’t hurt.”

I hope not. She doesn’t need any more hurt from me.





THIRTY-ONE


Weatherly

I can’t imagine being any more uncomfortable. My father was supposed to bring by the divorce papers that his attorney drew up for me. When I heard the knock at the front door, I assumed it was him, so I opened it without checking. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open for a good ten or twenty seconds when I saw Michael Stromberg standing on the stoop.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to get your hands on these.” His smile was wide and smug when he handed me the envelope. “Your father asked me to drop them by. He had some errands to run. May I come in?”

My father didn’t have errands to run, unless ill-timed matchmaking can be considered an errand.

“Of course,” I said politely, stepping back to allow him to enter. It wasn’t until I opened the envelope and saw the black-and-white evidence of the dissolution of my marriage to Tag that I felt my insides begin to crumble. For the thousandth time. I didn’t know it could keep on hurting, or even hurt worse than it already had, but it could. And it did.

My mind was battered with questions, the same questions I’d asked myself a million times, all without answer. How could something so perfect have been nothing more than a lie? How could something so right have turned out so very, very wrong? How could I be losing the one thing I always wanted—the man of my choosing, someone to love, someone to grow old with? Someone who was mine. All mine. Someone who was with me for no other reason than love.

Only that was never really the case with Tag. He had as much reason to marry me as Michael did, if not more. It was that realization that cut through me, all the way through me, like a sword separating bone from tissue, blood from vessels, heart from chest. It severed the last thread of hope I’d managed to preserve, and without it, I was lost.

That was half an hour ago. Despite my despair, I’ve had to sit and make polite conversation with Michael this entire time. I nearly sigh in relief when the doorbell rings. I don’t care if it’s just the deliveryman bringing me another bittersweet gift from Tag. I’m happy with any interruption.

Until I open the door and find Tag standing on my stoop this time. At the sight of him, my stomach clenches into a tight knot and my heart pounds so hard I can feel the pulse of it in my toes.

“Hi,” he says, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. He looks as though he feels awkward. Under different circumstances, I might call his gesture adorable. It reeks of insecurity and desperation, something that seems foreign on Tag. It probably seems foreign to Tag, too. I doubt he’s found himself in many situations where he isn’t in complete control. I imagine this is hard for him. And it damn well should be.

“Hi,” I reply evenly. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

“Tag, you shouldn’t be here. I told you—”

“I know what you told me, but I can’t live with that, Weatherly. I love you. I’m in love with you. I can’t just give up without a fight.”

His words please some pathetic part of me that seems impervious to the deception he perpetrated against me. It loves him without condition, without reservation. Still. Always.

“It’s too late for that. You should’ve fought when there was still something left to fight for,” I tell him, my anger rising. I hate that he can still make me feel regret and sadness and heartbreak. I hate that I can’t be cool and calm and unaffected. I don’t know what’s showing on my face, but my insides are a mess. They were the instant I laid eyes on him, and they will be for hours after he’s gone. And as long as he continues to be a presence in my life—whether through visits or gifts or messages or whatever—I’ll never be able to heal enough, to make myself strong enough to put him behind me.