by Aimee Carson
And it had certainly never occurred to her that she might be the biggest part of the problem.
Defeated, she slumped back in her chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.
“I tried.” Steve’s sigh was huge. “But you weren’t picking up on my hints.”
Hints. She scrunched up her face, trying to recall any clues. But if he’d been tossing them out, she had missed every one. “Why didn’t you just flat out tell me?”
Steve’s voice went low. “Come on, Jess,” he said softly. Clearly he hadn’t felt the direct route was an option. “You wouldn’t have believed me. And all I would have accomplished was to hurt your feelings.”
Jessica closed her eyes.
It’s not you, it’s me.
It’s not your crippling insecure ways—it’s my reluctance to tell you that you’re driving me insane.
She stared blankly at the wall beyond her desk, the truth settling around her like an ugly, uncomfortable dress. She could have spent the rest of her life lining up the world’s most perfect male, but it still wouldn’t have worked. Because she’d always insisted on picking the nice guys—when all along what she’d needed was a brash, ex-race-car driver with a cutting mouth, a whole lot of attitude...
And a penchant for brutal honesty.
She needed Cutter Thompson because she was in love with him, and no one else would ever be more right.
Jessica blinked against the instant sting beneath her lids, knowing it was now an artesian well of tears that would never stop. Her nose grew stuffy, and she sniffed, reaching for another tissue in her severely dwindling supply.
“What’s up with you and Cutter?” Steve said quietly, clearly oblivious to the momentous revelation she’d just endured, and that the answer to his question was so complicated it required its own internet support forum. There was concern in Steve’s voice. “Do I need to send someone over to break his knees?”
“No.” Jessica planted her elbow on her desk, wearily resting her forehead on her palm. “I’m the one who messed up.”
The silence was long and heavy as Jessica waited for Steve to ask what else was new. Instead, he said, “So what’s your plan?”
Jessica looked at the wall of books that had been read, reread, highlighted and underscored within an inch of their printed little lives. There was nothing on those shelves that could help her with Cutter. There was no analyzing her way out of the mess she’d created, and logic wouldn’t solve her problems.
Ultimately, the only thing strong enough to overcome it all was her love for Cutter.
“No plan,” she said, her heart tapping harder. “I’ll just have to improvise.”
* * *
Jessica followed her GPS to the upscale industrial park located in a high-end business district. It wasn’t hard to identify which building was Cutter’s. The ’Cuda parked in front was a dead giveaway.
It was strange to see the car in the parking lot lined with oak trees. Glossy black, the new coat of paint glistened in the sun. The brawny vehicle oozed raw power, as if poised to release its barely restrained speed at a moment’s notice. Just the right touch, and all the pent-up energy would be unleashed. Much like its owner.
Memory welled higher, and Jessica’s body went taut as she parked next to the ’Cuda. With a growing apprehension, she eyed the front of the building. The gargantuan garage door to the left was closed, the sound of muted music thumping from within. Not The Boss, but someone she didn’t recognize. Harder. Angrier.
Which didn’t bode well for Cutter’s mood.
Her stomach slid lower in her belly, and she shifted her gaze to the smaller office door on the right, gnawing on her lip, gathering her courage. Improvising didn’t seem like a good idea now that she was confronted with actually pulling it off. But loving Cutter and living without him was torment. Her heart lurched every time she thought of him. And that was so frequent it was like a streaming banner in her mind—similar to the news feeds that ran along the bottom of the CNN channel.
When the office door opened and Cutter appeared in the doorway, the scrolling news feed in her mind went ultra-caps, a deafening screaming in her brain. Jessica could barely muddle through the process of breathing. Battered jeans clung to his body, and a smudged T-shirt stretched across his chest. Cutter looked beautiful.
But gawking like an idiot wasn’t going to get her any closer to ending her agony. Heart pounding, she exited her car and closed the door, hand clinging to the handle, eyes on Cutter. He was leaning against the open doorway, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, his face guarded. And she instantly knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Nothing with Cutter had been easy. But there was more than just wariness in his expression.
Was he trying to decide how to tell her to leave?
Fear joined the mix of emotions, and she didn’t step closer. Without any idea of where to start, she said, “How was the benefit dinner with your online groupie?”
The only movement on his face was the lift of a single brow. “Groupies,” he corrected, and it took a moment to sink in. Jessica frowned in confusion until Cutter went on. “Calamity Jane was four retired bridge-club ladies ranging from seventy-eight to eighty-two years old.”
She did her best not to gape at him, floored by the news, trying to picture their dinner.
“It was a hell of a date,” he added dryly.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Cutter’s face, but his fatalistic undertones brought a familiar wave of sorrow. She longed to throw herself on the ground and tell him she was sorry for letting her doubts rule her actions. She wanted to rewind the clock and—after shooting a chastising email to her silly, insecure self—try again. To quit pushing so hard.
A breeze blew, rustling the oak overhead. Light played across Cutter’s face, and Jessica’s eyes wandered over the tall form of this man she loved.
The lean muscle, dark energy and raw edges.
But he was definitely looking at her as if there was something he wanted to say that she wouldn’t like, and a tight knot of panic formed. The pressure beneath her artesian well of tears increased, and she briefly pressed her eyelids together, forcing them back. Because honest dialogue had to begin with, well—honest dialogue.
“I spoke to Steve today,” she said. Cutter didn’t say anything, just regarded her with that coiled-spring edginess, until shame pushed her on. “You were right. I drove him away.”
Cutter’s eyebrows moved a fraction higher and, as if sensing she was about to shovel out a pile of misgivings, odoriferous stench and all, he crossed the pavement to lean his back against the door of the ’Cuda. Now four feet from her, he folded his beautiful arms across his chest.
And waited.
She cleared her throat, pushing past the fear. “I was always overly aware of the little things,” she said. “Worried they were signs of a pending relationship apocalypse.”
Cutter’s face gave nothing away, and she longed for some sort of emotion, even anger. At least then she’d know he felt something. But...nothing was forthcoming.
His words were careful. “Understandable, given the way your parents split.”
Which was so much more leeway than she’d ever afforded him, and his childhood had been light years ahead of hers in the misery department. Her piddly complaints were insignificant in comparison.
Guilt hit, and she lifted a shoulder listlessly. “I guess so,” she said. “It’s just...” She smoothed the knotted muscles on her neck, trying to ease the tension. To explain her desperate, foolish behavior. “All these years I believed my marriage failed because I chose the wrong guy.” She gave a laugh that was more humiliation than humor and dropped her hand. “It’s hard to face the mistakes I’ve made.”
His gaze held hers, as honest as ever. “I’m sure your heart was in the right place.”
A tida
l wave of remorse threatened to swamp her. He was generously giving her the benefit of the doubt, and she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve him. Not once when confronted with his questionable behavior had she ever afforded him the same latitude.
Instead, she’d been critical. Every moment he’d failed to live up to her expectations, she’d made it clear.
It was time to come clean. “My list was nonsense,” she said. When his expression didn’t budge, the tiny bud of terror expanded in her chest, and her grip on the car-door handle grew tight. “For fourteen years I was absolutely sure my parents loved each other. And then suddenly, they didn’t. And I’ve never trusted myself to recognize love—or the lack of—since.” It was a pathetic excuse, and she knew it. She fisted her free hand at her side. All the worry and second-guessing that had paralyzed her for years piled higher, making the words difficult. “So I pressed Steve too hard and drove him away.” She’d made a plan, set an expectation and pushed. Just like she’d pushed Cutter. Blinking back the sting of tears, she went on. “I just needed—”
“A guarantee it would work out?”
“Yes.”
Cutter stared at her warily. “Hence the rules and lists.”
Heat seared her face. “They were my pitiful way of trying to ensure I found the right guy.” But nothing on her bookshelf applied to the man who challenged her views on life, shooting holes in her theories, one biting remark after another. “And you were so different from what I thought I needed to make a relationship succeed, it scared me.” Her throat ached from the pressure of tears, and her words came out weak. “But I wanted you so much...”
Something flashed in his eyes. An emotion she didn’t recognize. Whatever it was, it didn’t look encouraging.
Pushing forward grew more difficult. “So I kept trying to turn you into something I’d recognize.” She rubbed her temple wearily and sent him a frown that held all the helplessness she’d felt to date. “But you weren’t following the rules.”
“I rarely do.”
“Which was disastrous for my comfort levels.”
His pause was brief. “Which would continue if we stayed together.”
Was he still writing the two of them off?
Anxiety spiraled in her belly, drawing it tight. “But, Cutter,” she finally let go of the car and stepped closer, halving the distance between them, “you are The One.” She looked up at him, pushing aside every crippling ocean of fear, hoping the truth showed on her face because she felt it to the deepest depths of her being. “We are perfect together. You are perfect for me.” She mustered up a wobbly smile. “Many shades of gray and all.” When he didn’t respond, didn’t even look moved, she played her final card. Her pièce de résistance. Jessica drew in a shaky breath and spoke the most honest words of her twenty-seven years. “Cutter, I’m in love with you.”
His stupefied expression did nothing to alleviate her adrenaline-induced state. Every muscle in her body tensed, and she slowed her breaths to help control the ungodly rate of her heart. Overhead, trees shifted in the breeze. Leaves rustled. And the world waited for Cutter’s reaction. She wasn’t sure how long the pause lasted, but it felt as if she lived, died and was resurrected a hundred times over.
Until a squeaking sound split the air as the garage door was rolled up by someone inside, and a male voice called out, “Mr. Thompson?”
Heart still throbbing, dying for Cutter’s reply to her confession, Jessica turned to find Emmanuel standing in the doorway to the garage.
The teen’s gaze shifted warily between Jessica and Cutter. “I’m ready to tighten the calipers on the brakes.”
It took several seconds for Cutter to respond. “Use the torque wrench.”
Emmanuel looked at him skeptically, a hint of defiance in his tone. “What happens if I don’t?”
Cutter nodded at the two-foot wrench the teen was holding. “That monstrosity you have in your hand might break the bolt.”
Instantly the defiance in the boy’s face was gone. “Oh,” Emmanuel said. And with that, the dark-haired teen turned and headed back into the shop.
Stunned by the exchange and the implications behind the teenager’s presence, Jessica was still trying to recover from the boy’s appearance when she aimed her gaze at Cutter. “How long has he been here?”
“Two hours.”
“How long has he been working on the brakes?”
“Two hours.”
Something in his tone alerted her to his frustration. “How long would it have taken you?”
“Thirty minutes.”
Jessica glanced at Emmanuel, watching him wrestle clumsily with his tool at the wheelbase of Cutter’s sports car in the garage, and then turned her attention back to Cutter. Her mind was frantically trying to keep up with the unexpected event. “So where is the angle for Cutter Thompson?”
He paused, staring at her. “There isn’t one.”
Her gaze roamed his handsome face, the sea-green eyes, and the glints of gold in his brown hair. He’d faced so much and come so far, and she hadn’t made it easy for him.
“Why?” she asked softly.
A moment passed as he returned her stare, as if struggling with his answer. “I guess I’m going for a paler gray.” But before hope could take root inside her, reservation infiltrated his face. “But I’ll never be a light enough shade for you.”
The tears welled higher, burning her lids. “I’ve done nice and it didn’t work.” She’d spent their entire relationship telling Cutter how he wasn’t measuring up. No wonder he was looking at her with such monstrous misgivings. “I need the bad boy. You are the right guy, just as you are.” She gave a watery sniff and tried to smile, but her mouth twitched with guilt. “And I promise to quit nagging.”
His brow crinkled in instant irony. “Sunshine, nobody makes an ass-kicking more fun than you.” His tone went dry. “Something I clearly need on a regular basis. But Jessica...” The reservation returned, and he plowed a hand through his hair.
The frustration in his gesture and the flash of hesitation in his eyes gave her the courage to step closer. She wasn’t sure if his doubts were about the two of them or about his continued resistance to her pleas. Praying it was the latter, she placed a hand on his chest. His thumping heart beneath her palm matched hers. Her first solid clue to his emotion.
She stared up into all that uncertainty in his face. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Eyes troubled, he blew out a breath, until his expression eased a bit, the candid words full of self-derision. “All I know is, since I left you, I’ve been to hell and haven’t been able to find my way back.” The honesty in his face was encouraging, but the continual apprehension in his eyes was heartbreaking. His words came out low. “But I don’t want to turn out like my parents.”
This was about more than just their relationship. It was his past, and hers.
“What do you want?” she said.
With a small frown he brushed her hair from her forehead. When his answer came, it was simple, but it was all she needed to hear.
“You,” he said. “I just want you.”
Eyes burning with unshed tears, she clutched his shirt. “I am yours.” When his apprehension didn’t ease, she went on, her fingers crushing the cotton. “Cutter, I had the marriage license and failed. The legal route didn’t work for our parents either. And all I really want—” She pressed her lips together, intent on getting it right. “The only part of the marriage vow I need from you is a promise of till death do us part.”
Eyes pained, expression stark, he said, “Jessica, I love you so much it hurts to live without you.” He looked at her with that love—and a measure of surrender—in his eyes. “Forever is the only way to end my misery.”
The relief was profound. She leaned against him, and he wrapped his arms around her. Wi
th his heart beating beneath her ear, slowly she allowed herself to feel the joy, to let herself believe it was real. That somehow, somewhere during her Battle of the Sexes with the Wildcard, he’d fallen in love with her as well. It was almost too good to be true.
But she would never doubt the two of them.
Smiling, she looked up at him, relishing the hard muscle. The wall of steel. He stroked the small of her back, sending decadent messages to her body. Cutter’s eyes grew dark, and her smile grew bigger as he leaned in for a kiss.
“Mr. Thompson?” Emmanuel called from inside the shop, and Cutter froze, lips halfway to hers. The teen’s voice was triumphant. “I’m finished.”
Cutter briefly closed his eyes. “Great timing,” he muttered, his expression one of barely maintained patience, lips hovering above her mouth. “Would it be rude if I tossed him out so I could make love to you?” The long-suffering expression on his face was adorable.
“Extremely rude.”
“Damn.” He pursed his lips, as if considering his options. “And taking off in the ’Cuda for a repeat backseat rendezvous? Rude?” Gaze smoldering, he pulled her flush against him. “Or acceptably wicked?”
In response to his hard body, delight spread through her. “Definitely acceptable.”
A brow lifted suggestively. “You in?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a grin. “You see, I’ve developed a thing for the wicked boy with a bad attitude.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of The Secrets She Carried by Lynne Graham!
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