If You Were Mine

by Melanie Harlow

  “Everybody makes mistakes, Theo. You’re not your past. And I’m not a judgmental person. But you didn’t even give me a chance to tell you that! You were too busy keeping me at a distance so you could ditch me and feel nothing later!”

  “Because I thought I was no good for you, Claire.” He came at me and took me by the shoulders. “I told you that from the very start.”

  “That was my decision to make,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “I know.” He closed his eyes for a second. “I’m sorry for not trusting you, and for bailing on you. I’m not good at… letting someone in. I never have been.”

  I appreciated his honesty, but I was still wary. How did we move forward from here? “So now what?”

  “Now I ask for another chance with you.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I was a believer in second chances, but I was scared. “I don’t know, Theo.” Tears welled in my eyes, and I struggled to speak. “Twice now you’ve walked out and left me wondering what’s wrong with me that I keep getting my hopes up. I don’t want to get hurt.”

  “Come here.” He pulled me closer to his chest, and I let myself give in to the urge to cry, weeping quietly as he spoke. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, and I’ll probably keep on making them. Driving up here tonight, I kept asking myself why the hell you should give me another chance. And the truth is—I’ve got no fucking idea.”

  In spite of everything, it made me laugh a little through my tears.

  “But I know that you should. Not because I deserve it. Not because I’m the perfect man. Not because you couldn’t do better—God knows you could.” He paused. “But I’ve never felt magic like I do when we’re together. And I have to believe that doesn’t happen very often.”

  I sniffed. “I don’t think it does.”

  “So what do you say? Can we try again? Give ourselves a real beginning this time, instead of a fake one?”

  I wanted to. Deep in my heart, I wanted to. But I needed a moment. I needed to think. And I really needed a tissue. “Give me a minute, OK?”

  He let me go, and I went into the downstairs bathroom. After going through half a box of tissues, I looked in the mirror, groaning inwardly at my puffy eyes, tearstained cheeks, and red nose. But this was me—the real, behind-the-curtains me. I bruised easily, felt things deeply, and cried when I was sad. I had no desire to hide that. If he wanted to let me in, he had to take all of me.

  And give me all of him.

  I found him in the living room, sitting on the couch, but he stood when he saw me. “You OK?”

  “Yes.” It surprised me how steady my voice was. How self-assured my stance. “Did you mean it when you said you wanted more?”

  “Yes.” He said it firmly, looking me right in the eye.

  “That means opening up to me. Being honest. Showing me who you really are—not just the charming Hottie-for-Hire Theo Woodcock, but you. Theo MacLeod.”

  “I will.”

  “And it means not bailing when things don’t feel magical.”

  “I know.”

  “And it means you’ll have to earn my trust back.”

  He nodded. “I know. I’m willing to work for it.”

  I almost broke down and hugged him, but I remained strong, folding my arms in front of me. “Good. Because this won’t be easy. We’re going to start with one night of truthful conversation about the real you, past and present.”

  He nodded, but I can’t say he didn’t look nervous. “OK.”

  “And we’re not going to touch each other,” I went on. “We already know we’re very good communicating sexually, but I want more than that.”

  “I do too.”

  “Do you agree to the terms?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I won’t say I’m happy about not touching you, but if that’s what it takes, then I’ll agree.”

  “That’s what it takes. I need to know exactly who it is that I’m giving this chance to, Theo. That’s the only way I’ll know whether you’re someone I can trust with my whole heart. And if you want anything less than that, you should walk out the door right now.” I pointed toward the front door.

  He didn’t even glance at it. “No,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “I want to stay.”

  Twenty-Five

  Theo

  * * *

  Finally, I could breathe.

  For a solid week I’d felt like I couldn’t get enough oxygen, like a tank was parked on my chest, but now that I was here and she’d asked me to stay, I could breathe.

  It hadn’t been an easy decision, to come here and say those things, list all my faults, and ask for another chance. Part of me had thought she might say fuck you, no, and throw me out on my ass—it would certainly have been her right.

  “But is she like that?” Aaron had asked on Christmas Day. I’d lain awake almost the entire night before, thinking about what to do, and I’d voiced my fears to him as we watched the kids open gifts. “From what you’ve told me, she sounds like a more forgiving person than that.”

  “She is,” I’d said, frowning as I lifted my coffee cup to my lips. My head felt so cloudy this morning, probably because I’d slept so little.

  A few minutes went by before he’d spoken again. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you forgiven yourself?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “For what?”

  “For anything.” When I didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—he’d gone on. “I think you should start there. With yourself. It’s where I have to start, too.”

  “God. That’s really fucking hard.”

  He’d put a hand on my shoulder. “Sure as hell is, brother. Nothing like a mirror to force you to see truth when you’d much rather see a lie.”

  His words had stuck with me throughout the following week. He was right—I had to stop avoiding self-reflection and start asking myself some hard questions. I continued to go to the gym and hang out at Aaron’s house, watching the kids while Aaron hunted for jobs and Josie worked, but I spent a lot of time at my apartment alone trying to figure out who I was and, more importantly, who I wanted to be.

  Now, I confessed it all to Claire.

  “Aaron was right—I blamed myself for a lot of things, hated myself for them. And I hadn’t forgiven myself at all. Not for hiding when our father abused him. Not for disappointing my coach by dropping out of school. Not for disappointing my grandmother. Not for being so ashamed I couldn’t face her until she was already ill. Not for any of my crimes.”

  She looked up from the cutting board on the counter, where she was struggling to cut a squash in half. “But those aren’t crimes, exactly. I mean, obviously stealing a car is a crime, but those other things are more like things you feel bad about doing.”

  My stomach turned over. “There were some other crimes.”

  “Crimes?” She blinked. “Like, plural?” She waved the butcher knife around.

  “Uh, yeah.” I slid off the stool I was sitting on and went around the counter to help her. “But it’s all in the past. I promise you.” I took the knife from her hand and halved the tough-skinned vegetable for her.

  She pinned me with a stare. “Have you hurt people, Theo?”

  “Never. It only involved money. More like unsavory business deals between—”

  “But you’re not involved with them any longer?”

  I held up my palms. “No. I am clean as can be and plan to stay that way.” I’d already called John Salinger and told him I was out of the game. “Aaron and I are going to try the carpentry business again, but I’ll probably work at the stoneworks for a while too. Until we build up a good reputation and regular clientele.”

  “Good. Then I don’t want to hear anything unsavory.” She grabbed a big spoon from a drawer. “But thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “You’re welcome.” There. Another ugly piece of my life was behind me. I inhaled and exhaled, feeling as if my lungs could expand ten time
s bigger now.

  “So go on.” Claire picked up a squash half and began to scoop it out. “You were telling me about forgiving yourself?”

  “Right.” I sat down again, refocusing on what I’d been saying. “The funny thing was, when I wrote down all the things I felt bad about and stared at them, forcing myself to take a hard look at what I’d done, I realized the ones that mattered the most to me, the things that would be hardest to forgive, were the ones that meant I’d let other people down. People I cared about—my brother, my grandmother, my coach.”

  She nodded, setting one half down and picking up the second. “What did that tell you?”

  “I guess that I carry around a lot of guilt, which I’ve done my best to ignore.” I scratched my head. “I’m good at burying painful stuff so I don’t have to deal with it.”

  “You just move on instead?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Much easier to pack up and go somewhere else, do something else, be someone else, than to stay in one place and face myself. Although honestly, I don’t think I realized what I was doing. I’d just get that restless feeling, like I was cooped up and had to get out, and I’d take off.”

  “It’s funny that you’re so perceptive of other people, but not of yourself. Don’t you think?” She looked up at me as she put a little water on the bottom of a baking tray.

  “Yeah. But there was a reason, you know?”

  “Self-preservation?”

  I frowned. “I guess. When you put it like that, I’m an even bigger asshole, aren’t I?”

  She set the squash halves on the tray, cut side down. “I don’t think you’re an asshole at heart. I think you were probably dealt a shitty hand from the start and you never really worked through it. Instead, you acted out. Drifted. Pretended to be someone else. It all kept you from having to turn the focus inward.”

  Nodding slowly, I watched her stick the tray in the oven and set the timer. She looked so cute in her pajamas. I wanted to hold her again so badly, but I’d promised not to touch and I intended to keep my word. “I think you’re right.”

  “Know what else I think?”

  “What?”

  Finally she stopped moving and stood opposite me, her hands on the counter between us. “I’m really sorry about what you and your brother went through as kids.” Her eyes were wet. “Every time I think of it, I want to cry.”

  My instinct was to change the subject, but instead I took another deep breath. “Thanks. It was rough.”

  She bit her bottom lip, and I stared at it, the memory of her mouth on mine assailing all my senses. “Do you want to talk about it at all?” she asked gingerly.

  “Fuck no. But I will.”

  She smiled ruefully as a tear leaked from each eye. Quickly wiping them away as if she was embarrassed, she came around the counter. “I know I said no touching. But I really need to give you a hug.”

  I stood up and she came into my arms, rising up on her toes to loop her arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around her and buried my face in her sweet-smelling hair, choking up when I realized she was still struggling not to cry.

  I wanted to tell her it was OK, I was fine, I’d survived, and I was going to do better. But I couldn’t speak—my throat was too tight.

  Instead we just held each other. And it was enough.

  * * *

  After dinner, when I finally got to taste the sweet, spicy chili that had been tantalizing me for hours, I helped Claire do the dishes. “I really need to learn how to cook,” I told her as I scrubbed out the pot. “That was amazing. I would never have thought to use a squash like a bowl.”

  “I’m happy to give you the recipe.” She loaded some silverware into the dishwasher. “It’s very easy, just involves a lot of chopping and simmering time.”

  “I need to get a big pot like this too.” It was thick and heavy and made of enamel.

  “A Dutch oven,” she said. “Yes, you definitely need one of those.”

  I smiled. “I’ll have to learn all the fancy names for everything too. And speaking of fancy, this is not a cabin.”

  “It’s made of logs, isn’t it?” But she was laughing.

  “Yeah, about fifty thousand of them.” I rolled my eyes. “Cabins do not have two-story cathedral ceilings, big screen televisions, or decks.”

  “Well, that’s what we’ve always called it.” She shut the dishwasher and turned it on. “It’s a family tradition and my mother takes those very seriously, so it’s not about to change.”

  Family traditions. I had zero of those, unless you counted skipping out on people. Failing them. “You came up here a lot when you were growing up?”

  She leaned back against the counter next to me. “Yes. Tomorrow I’ll show you my favorite trails for kissing.”

  I burst out laughing. “For what?”

  “Hiking,” she said, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I meant hiking.”

  “Too bad.” I looked down at her, nearly nose to nose. “I like kissing.”

  A hushed moment of tension.

  “Uh, I’ll show you where you can sleep.” She hurried away from me, moving around the counter and into the great room. “There’s a nice bedroom downstairs with a view of the lake.”

  The only view I wanted was one with her in it, but I nodded politely. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “Did you bring a bag?” she asked, looking around.

  “It’s still in the car. I’ll grab it.” I grabbed my keys from my coat pocket. “I wasn’t sure you were going to let me stay.”

  “I wasn’t even going to let you in,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and stepping back as I passed her. “But you wore me down.”

  “Wasn’t that hard,” I teased, walking backward toward the door. “Softie.”

  “I am a softie.” She stood up taller. “I can admit it. And I believe in second chances.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  Her face lit up, her cheeks flushing pink. She was so fucking pretty. I felt like I’d never get tired of looking at her. Talking to her. Being with her.

  And as I hurried through the howling, icy wind and snow to my car, I realized she’d made me believe in second chances, too.

  * * *

  “Theo.”

  I thought I was dreaming when I heard her whisper my name, but a moment later, I heard it again. Felt the mattress shift as she crawled beneath the covers.

  “Theo.”

  I opened my eyes and looked toward her voice in the dark, my heart beating fast. “Claire? Are you OK?”

  “Yes.” She moved closer to me and I immediately put my arms around her. “I just missed you.”

  “I missed you too.”

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “Of course.” I wasn’t sure if she meant actual sleep or something else, but I wasn’t going to push it. If all she wanted to do was close her eyes and let me hold her all night long, I’d do it.

  “I was lying in bed up there, and I couldn’t stop thinking about everything you told me.” Her left hand rested on my bare chest, one fingertip brushing back and forth over my skin. “Everything you’ve been through.”

  I swallowed hard, and tried not to think about my dick. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I felt so sad. I keep imagining how hard it must have been for you guys to grow up without a mother, with a father who abused you. The two people who are supposed to love you the most and take care of you.” She sniffed and snuggled closer, wrapping her arm around me. “I want to go back in time and hug you. Protect you. Rescue you. Change your life so that none of the bad stuff would happen.”

  I kissed her head. “Thank you. But you know what? I made it out OK. And I’m here now.”

  “Yes.” She kissed my chest. Then she did it again. The third time, she left her lips on my skin. Rubbed them back and forth.

  My cock stirred between us.

  “Uh, are we still observing the no-touching rule tonight?” I asked as she kissed her way up my chest. “Asking for a friend.”
>
  “It’s after midnight,” she whispered, her breath tickling my ear. “Tomorrow is here.”

  “Oh, thank fuck.” I flipped her beneath me.

  She pulled her pajama top over her head and shimmied out of her bottoms while I shoved off my boxer briefs. As soon as I could get my mouth on hers, I kissed her hungrily, passionately, frantically, as if she might be a dream and I was afraid of waking up too soon. My hands sought all the places on her body they’d missed and longed to touch. My tongue stroked along all her curves and hollows. My cock grew hard and thick, aching with the need to be inside her.

  She wrapped her hand around it, rubbed the tip over her clit, moaned with pleasure and impatient desire. When she slipped it down, I pulled back. If I didn’t stop and get a condom now, I never would. “Hold on,” I whispered. “Let me get—”

  “Do you have to?” She reached for me again. “I want to feel you—just you—inside me.”

  I groaned. “You’re killing me.”

  “If you’re worried about being safe, I’m on the pill. Come on,” she cajoled. “Let me feel you with nothing between us. Even if it’s just for a minute.”

  A minute. Right. As if I was going to last a minute once I got inside her. And if I did, I knew there was no way in hell I was stopping to put on a condom.

  “Please,” she said softly, feathering my neck with kisses. “I need it. I need to feel that close to you.”

  God, I wanted to. I wanted to share something with her I’d never shared with anybody. I wanted her to have more of me than anyone else had ever had. But this was an ironclad rule! I’d never broken it—ever. This was more than my real name or my criminal record or my family history. This was me. Unprotected. Inside her. It was personal. It was intimate. It meant climbing levels of trust I’d never shared with anyone before.

  And it scared me.

  She moaned, slipping just the tip inside. “Mmmmm, see? Doesn’t that feel amazing?”

  Fuck fuck fuck, what was the right thing to do? This felt like a critical moment—like the decision I made would change everything. My last defenses breeched. My final wall torn down.