Love Lock (The Love Lock Duet Book 2)

by S. M. West

  A slow, bright smile splits across her lovely face and she slips her arm around my waist. “I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve missed you so much. We all have.”

  “Me too.”

  “Does this mean you’re getting back together with Drew?”

  “What?”

  “Drew still loves you, and Pip, while you were gone, he was miserable.” Her soft-spoken words tear at my heart and the thought of Drew hurting hammers painfully at my chest.

  Paige bounces over to us, interrupting the moment. She’s left the guys behind and wants to go home. Claire insists on going to her place to study, and me? On the spur of the moment, I say only what I want without over-thinking or second-guessing. So much like my old self.

  “Take me to Drew’s.”

  Drew stands in his open doorway, his eyes tracking my approach. I do the same and take in his form-fitting tee, defining every hard edge and slope of his chest, and the low-slung joggers hugging his trim waist. Damn, I shouldn’t be ogling him like dessert.

  “Hey, how are you?” He flashes one of his Boy Scout smiles and my insides somersault as he shuts the door behind me.

  Folding his arms over his chest, he rakes my body head to toe, again, and I’m more aware of myself than ever before.

  “Good. You?” My gaze darts around the room.

  Two suitcases line the entrance wall, music streams through the surround sound system, and his laptop is open on the kitchen table.

  “Good now that you’re here.” He brushes past me on his way to the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” He opens the fridge, pulling out a Chinese takeout container.

  “I’m not hungry. We ate.” I skim the bags again. “Are you going somewhere?”

  I swallow against a sudden aching stiffness in my throat. I shouldn’t be shocked or sad that he’s got plans that don’t include me. If he wasn’t leaving me for my brother, when we were together, then it was for work. Why would now be any different? And why am I acting like I have a right to be upset? It shouldn’t bother me.

  “Did you get my text?” He steps into my personal space, ignoring my question.

  “Yes,” I say, voice shaky.

  “Nothing to say?”

  “No. What do you think I should say?” I throw him an irritated glare. I didn’t text back because I had no response that wouldn’t lead to trouble.

  He inches closer and his spicy citrus scent hits me. Heart pounding, I scramble for a change of topic. Something that might put him on the defensive, rather than me.

  “I thought you’d be married by now.”

  He arches a brow and studies me for what feels like an eternity. What the hell am I doing? Where did that come from? With each second that passes in silence, my heart gallops, threatening to break from my chest.

  “Nope.” He doesn’t expand, the silence growing louder like only it can.

  “Why not? I know you want a wife and kids. Why haven’t you settled down yet?”

  Having the balls to ask the tough questions has never been my problem. Curiosity always gets the better of me. I want answers, but also fear his response. What if there is someone and it’s only a matter of time before he gets hitched? In some ways, I wish he already was married—off limits. Shit, I still care when none of this should matter to me.

  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” His piercing eyes send a prickling heat from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. “I’d like to think I’ve learned from them. Smart enough not to repeat them again. One mistake I refuse to make is marrying the wrong woman.”

  Tilting my head to the side, I study him, not sure what he means. The wrong woman? Am I the wrong woman? Is that what he’s trying to tell me?

  “Anyone who isn’t you is wrong for me.”

  He’s absolute, and while he hasn’t moved, it feels like there’s no longer any space between us.

  My breath escapes in a rush, until finally I find my voice and whisper, “Don’t say things like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it could have been me. You had me. All you had to do was ask.”

  He pushes out a humorless laugh, shaking his head before he touches my arm. His fingers feather upward to my shoulder and along my collarbone, leaving blistering tingles in their wake. Brushing my hair back, his digits curl around the nape of my neck and his thumb glides along my cheek.

  “I was a fucking fool.” His voice a low rumble and he flashes me a grin. “But like I said, I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Leaning in, his hot breath hits my dry lips and without thought, I lick them causing his eyes to dip to where my tongue just was; heavy-lidded, his gaze hits mine.

  “I love you, Pippa. I’ve never stopped.”

  Searing heat spreads from my chest outward, painful and euphoric all at once, and I jerk backward, stumbling over my feet, and fortunately fall to the sofa.

  “Shit, Pip, you okay?” He goes for me, worried and protective, but I stop him by putting a hand in the air.

  “Yes, fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Any joy from his statement of love is drowned by a torrent of turbulent memories crashing over me, reminding me of every tear shed over the past several years. Why did I go through all of that? Just so he can tell me it was one big mistake. And that makes it okay?

  “I’m going to bed.”

  I stand, and he stays quiet, motionless. For once, he gives me what I want. Maybe coming back here wasn’t a good idea. I’m still not sure why I did since he and I are history. We don’t have a future.

  15

  Pippa

  The drive up north is quiet and peaceful. I didn’t sleep well the night before and woke before the sun, needing to run and blow off the negative energy. Drew was already up and I found him hunched over his laptop.

  With only a grunt from him, he watched me leave without any objection or conversation. I think we were both stuck in our own thoughts. I was still plagued by his confession of love and my sudden exit was a chance to clear my head.

  I can’t trust Drew’s feelings nor my own.

  Love was never our problem.

  It was everything else, and I’m not confident that Drew has changed, or if I’m able to decipher his intentions clearly.

  After my run and shower, he asked again if I’d go to his cottage and I surprised myself by agreeing. I didn’t really think about it, just reacted with a yes, and here we are now, only minutes away.

  I’m anxious. The last time I was here, he’d just bought the cottage months before and it needed a lot of work. We’d made so many plans for this place—our vacation home—and while I want to see what it’s become, it’ll also hurt to see what I’ve missed.

  From the outside, the house looks the same in many ways, but things are different. Newer. Some of the brick and stucco have been replaced, the windows are brand new, and the yard has been professionally landscaped with shrubs, bushes, and an abundance of fall flowers.

  Looking at the place, I’m reminded of how the word cottage is a misnomer because there’s nothing cottage-like about the big house. But here in Ontario, we refer to vacation homes up north as “the cottage,” no matter the size.

  We enter the house, and my thoughts jumble together as I take it all in. A massive fieldstone fireplace sits in the middle of the great room—the very one I had picked out. The hearth divides the space into a cozy nook to work, read or nap with a wall of books, rows upon rows of them, and the other side is a family room. Large, comfy furniture in suede, leather, and wood fills the room. And the floor to ceiling view of the lake is as magnificent as I remember.

  “It’s stunning,” I say, breathless.

  He observes my silent amazement as I inspect every inch, even looking beyond the window to the large, newer dock and boat house at the water’s edge. Both were tear-downs when he bought the place and had been demolished the last time I was here.

  “Yeah. It’s come together nicely.” He doesn’t sound as enthusiastic as I’d expect, wi
th a hint of melancholy to his tone.

  Sweeping the room once more, I walk through the kitchen, then dining room, and they’re exactly as he’d envisioned them years ago when he’d started making plans. I’d stayed with him that first week he’d got the cottage and one night we sat at the kitchen table as he shared with me, in detail, what he wanted for every nook and cranny of this big, old, house. His eyes had glittered with pride and excitement. I see none of that now.

  I take the stairs to the second floor, with Drew close behind, already knowing what I’ll find if the downstairs is any indication. This place reflects our dreams. Everything is as it should be with a California king in the middle of the master bedroom, an oversized armchair to one side, and the en suite is decked out in slate tiles, a walk-in shower with dual shower heads, a large clawfoot tub, and a dry sauna. Two of the spare rooms are furnished for guests and another is a small gym.

  “Why aren’t you happy?” I ask as we return to the ground floor.

  This is where we all started, our brief time as a couple. Being here is bittersweet. Our relationship is history, in the past much like the fixtures, old paint and furniture that’s been replaced or thrown out during the renovations. Maybe that’s what Drew is feeling.

  “Because you weren’t here to share this with.” His hands sweep around the open space.

  Goosebumps skitter across my skin and heat flares low in my abdomen. Why does he keep doing this? Every one of his declarations leaves me feeling like I’ve fallen flat on my face. It’s as if he’s trying to mend things, fix our past, as if we have a future, but that isn’t the case. Before, I thought we were everything and I was so wrong and now… Our relationship is unsalvageable. Beyond repair.

  We no longer know each other. I’m not the same girl who blindly chased after him at fourteen. Nor the young woman content to wait, letting life float by, hoping he’d come to his senses and choose me.

  I rub at my forehead, feeling the tension build behind my eyes, and move from the foyer into the family room. His steps are soundless, but I feel the heat of him behind me. As I turn to face him, our gazes lock and I take a few steps back, needing more distance between us. I’m not sure if I don’t trust myself or him. Or if it’s just being here that’s makes me feel vulnerable. Overwhelmed and raw.

  “You left me.”

  “No need to remind me. I’m fully aware of how things went down.” His expression tightens, sorrowful. Tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he rocks back and forth on his heels, his sharp green eyes never leaving me.

  “I fucked up. I’m sorry. I want you back.” There’s an irritation to his tone, like he feels forced to confess. “There, I said it. I. Want. You. Back.”

  He slaps his jean-covered thighs and I exhale a shaky breath. His intention to “get me back” as he put it does nothing to settle my nerves or quell my tumultuous mind and heart. In fact, it does the opposite.

  “We’ve been over for years.” I fold my arms over my chest, suddenly questioning everything. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “What do you mean?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me. “I thought it’d give you a chance to heal, both physically and emotionally. I thought you liked this place. I wanted you to feel safe.”

  I swallow, trying to loosen the fist-like sensation squeezing my chest. “And that’s it? Nothing else?”

  He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes before letting his hands fall and bringing his head up. The look in his sparkling sea-green eyes is naked and intense.

  “This place is special to both of us, I think. At least, it is to me. This is where we started. Where I finally came to my senses and admitted that I loved you.”

  His voice is unsteady and soft, and I think he isn’t lacking conviction but more that he’s concerned for me and how I might react.

  My head swims, my heart thunders against my ribcage and I’m unsure as to what to do with his raw truth. Unadulterated and laid bare. He readily closes the distance between us, one hand cupping the back of my neck, and gently, he traces his thumb over my bottom lip.

  “And since I’m being completely and perhaps foolishly honest, I hoped that us being here, alone and together, would give us a chance to rekindle what we lost.”

  My body is my foe, betraying me; my nipples harden, breasts needy to be touched, and I clench my thighs, yearning to release the ache. I force myself not to lean into him, not to take his thumb into my mouth and taste the salty manliness of all that is Drew.

  “I can’t do this, now. I mean, not ever. I’ve got too many other pressing things to deal with.” I stutter and stumble over my words and feet, trying to get away from him.

  “Let’s talk about that.” He taps my elbow, leading me to the couch where he pats the space beside him. “What are your plans?”

  Suddenly, his tone is lawyerly, reading me so well and knowing I need this, not my friend or ex, to make it easier to talk about.

  “I’m getting a divorce.”

  “Have you told him?”

  I shake my head no, staying silent because I don’t have it all figured out and surprisingly, Brock hasn’t contacted me. I should be elated, but instead it’s freaking me out because I can’t help but wonder what he’s up to. He has to know I’m gone by now.

  “Has he contacted you since you’ve left?” His voice is low, and he slides his fingers under my chin, tipping my head to face him.

  “No, and I’m partly relieved and partly anxious.”

  “What are you worried about? He won’t find you here.”

  “It’s not that. I just…” I stare into Drew’s steadfast gaze, my cheeks flaming, but what I see—no judgment or blame—bolsters me to go on. “I don’t know how I got here. How I let it get this far. I was in denial that first time he hit me. I couldn’t believe, I refused to believe it had happened. I even thought I was to blame…” I trail off, embarrassed, but it’s also liberating to admit it.

  “Don’t.” Drew gently touches my knee.

  “I’d accepted the blame and convinced myself maybe he was right and that I had been flirting. That I was the tease and in some sick and twisted way, I deserved what I got.”

  The memories of my husband’s first blow strangle me, tears stinging my nose and pricking my eyes. And I’m sick to my stomach to hear how I’m justifying his actions.

  “And it happened again.”

  I curl my fists in my lap, my short fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. I am strong and smart, but for the life of me, I don’t know how I got here.

  “He started cheating, or maybe he was always doing it, but I never noticed. I even made excuses.” My laugh is harsh and disparaging.

  “But I finally came to my senses.” Sarcasm laces my tone, acrid in my mouth. “I was done making excuses for him. There was no excuse for hitting me. I realized then that I had to leave.”

  Drew sits rigid with outrage. “How…” His lips smash together and his jaw clenches as he works something out in his mind. “Why’d you—?” His mouth snaps shut.

  He doesn’t have to say any more. I’ve asked myself every day since it began, why did I stay?

  “At first, it was gradual. The time between the first and second was months apart and as more time passed, I’d hoped it was a bump in our marriage, not a sign of things to come. But over time, the episodes became more frequent.”

  I pause, chuckling dryly at my choice of words. I make it sound like an affliction or some disease—and I suppose it is—but he had a choice. Talking with Drew is loosening the massive knot in my chest and as hard as it is to talk about, it seems to also help.

  With my hand in his, his thumb gently rubs along my knuckles, and my mind wanders. The feel of Drew’s hands on my body are forever imprinted in my memories. Like the tender fluttering of butterfly wings, his fingers would dance along my skin as we’d lay naked, wrapped around each other, for hours on end.

  He was the first man to make love to me. The first man to show me how to
love all of someone. Mind. Body. Soul. Drew’s touched me, nurtured me, and cherished me like no man ever has.

  16

  Drew

  “What is it about me that made him do this? Made him think it was okay to beat me?” Her voice cracks and tears slide down her cheeks.

  She’s a broken little girl and the need to protect her, make her mine, is a furious itch, a savage need. I want her to be mine again so badly, I feel it in my bones—it’s consuming, suffocating, uncomfortably tight like my skin might crack.

  “Nothing, darling, nothing.” Restraining any sharpness, I push each word past clenched teeth. “There’s nothing about you that says you deserve this.”

  I pull on her arm, wanting to hold her, but she resists. She doesn’t want my comfort. I lost the right to hold her. No, I gave up that right. Fucking idiot.

  “Pippa Raine, you’re magnificent,” I say fiercely, my heated stare pinning her in place. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault. Do you hear me? None of this.”

  I felt utterly helpless listening to how that fucking brute used her as a punching bag. It broke my heart. And it’s messed up that she feels responsible.

  “All you ever did was love that fucking asshole.” My venom pierces every word. “You didn’t cause him to be violent. Do you hear me?”

  She nods, wiping her cheeks and swallowing back tears. Seeing her distraught and knowing what she went through makes me sick to my stomach, and mad at myself for walking away. And the rage I feel for Brock Sullivan consumes me.

  She curls into the corner of the sofa, tucking her legs into her chest and resting her head on the arm. Her eyes close and I want to cover her with the heat of my body. Hold her. Instead, I pull a blanket over her, and while I still have a million questions, I leave her be.

  Hot coffee slides down my throat and I moan at the rich, earthy flavors. Pippa strolls into the kitchen in running gear, pulling off her gloves.