Chapter One
Bryce
After staring at her for as long as I could and choking back a tear that threatened, I covered Marjorie’s sleeping body.
I love you.
Had she meant to say the words aloud? They’d come out on a soft sigh during one of her many climaxes, and though I’d yearned to return them, I hadn’t.
I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Not until…
Not until I’d dealt with the demons that plagued me…including the long-buried secret from Joe’s and my past that threatened us now.
I had to move on, make her understand that we couldn’t ever be. I dressed quietly and then walked out to the desk in the kitchen. After finding a notepad and pen, I scribbled down some words.
Noxious words I didn’t mean but had to say. She needed to move on, and I needed to help her. I walked back into the bedroom where my perfect angel still slept. I kissed her cheek lightly. She moved slightly but didn’t wake up.
I wanted to remember her like this—soft and innocent and beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
I’m sorry, I said silently. I’m sorry I can’t be what you deserve.
One more light kiss to her silky forehead.
Then I laid the note on the nightstand next to her.
I walked out of the bedroom.
Out of the guesthouse.
Out of Marjorie Steel’s life.
I opened the door of the Mustang—I really needed to get rid of this damned car—sat down in the driver’s seat, and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
Marjorie’s text glared at me.
I need to talk to you.
We hadn’t talked. I’d attacked her as soon as I got here. She hadn’t resisted, but still…I should have asked her what she wanted to talk about. Instead, I’d chosen to be a selfish bastard and take from her body what I needed to stay sane.
Funny. The more I had of her, the less sane I became. The more I had of her, the more I wanted her, which was why I’d left. Why I’d written those hurtful words. Cold turkey was the only way to go with Marjorie Steel. Somehow, I’d have to find the willpower to leave her alone.
But she’s in love with you.
She’d said the words in the throes of passion. I’d been thinking them myself but had held back. I wasn’t even sure if she was aware she’d uttered them. If she could see inside my head, inside my dark soul, she’d see the truth.
I wasn’t worth loving.
She was, though. She was so strong and so passionate. She deserved the world. I wanted to give it to her more than anything, but how could I? I was an empty shell—someone masquerading as a man but desolate inside.
I had such hatred for myself, and I hadn’t thought I could hate myself any more.
But I did.
I did because I’d written those despicable words to the woman who meant more to me than anyone—other than my son—ever had.
I’d written them so she could see me for who I truly was—someone who could never give her what she deserved. The only way she’d stay away from me was if she thought I was a true louse.
I ruminated over the words I’d left on the page.
You can still sneak back in, destroy the note before she sees it…
I erased the thought from my mind. I’d done the only thing I could. She would hate me now, with good reason. I had to live with that.
I drove home, checked on a sleeping Henry, and then collapsed onto my bed for the last time.
Tomorrow we’d move to the guesthouse.
Chapter Two
Marjorie
The note was callous.
The words were cruel.
Even the sheet of paper was crisp and unsympathetic.
Bryce Simpson was heartless.
I’d fallen in love with a heartless man.
My purse sat on a chair on the other side of the room. Still naked from our night of passion, I rose and grabbed it. Inside the hidden pocket was something I’d kept, even though I’d promised Mel I’d trashed it.
It was a reminder.
It was a security blanket.
Right now I needed it.
Stop.
I could walk to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Let the blast of cold air ease the unpleasantness from my mind.
Yes, it would be easier.
Much easier than…
I unzipped the pocket slowly and withdrew the sharp razor blade. I sat back down on the bed and regarded the scar on my upper thigh. It was still red, but it had healed. If I left it alone, it would eventually turn white and then gradually fade over the years.
Slowly, I lowered the blade to my flesh.
But the note caught my gaze once more. Why torture myself?
I couldn’t help it. The words called to me like a gruesome accident I couldn’t look away from, no matter how much I didn’t want to see.
Because I did want to see. My rite of self-flagellation. Words would cut deeper than any blade ever could.
So I read them once more. Imagined his low and sexy voice uttering each one.
Marjorie,
* * *
I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to pursue me. I can’t deny our physical attraction, but I have no emotional ties to you. I’ll be working on the ranch and living in the guesthouse, but I’ll stay as far away from you as I possibly can. I need to be alone now. I can’t have my attention diverted by my best friend’s little sister. I need to give everything I have to my new position and to my son and mother. I don’t need an extra distraction in my life. Nothing happened between us, and nothing more will ever happen. You are Joe’s sister, nothing more.
* * *
Bryce
Such stilted words, as if he were addressing an audience of foreign dignitaries rather than a woman he’d just made love to.
A distraction? I was only a distraction?
Joe’s sister? Nothing more?
Such coldness. No sorrow. No pleading with me to understand. Nothing but hurtful and icy words.
Thank God I hadn’t told him I loved him.
Oh, I’d been thinking it. Through all those orgasms, I’d been saying it over and over in my mind.
Once more I let the blade hover over my scarred flesh.
How easy it would be to slice into myself, allow the physical pain to overwhelm the emotional.
No. No. No.
I rose, still naked, and ran into the kitchen. The refrigerator loomed white and tall. My savior. I opened it and stood in the corner between the door and the shelves, letting the cold air waft over me.
My nipples puckered and goose bumps erupted on my skin.
Nothing went away, but at least the cool air eliminated the need—for the moment, at least—to cut myself. Mel would be proud of me. I should be proud of myself.
But I felt no pride. All I felt was devastation.
When I closed the refrigerator door, the scar on my upper thigh throbbed, taunting me.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
The cold air is gone. You know what will give you peace.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
“No!” I opened the refrigerator door once more. Inhaled the cold air.
Inhaled it again.
Again.
Again.
Again and again and again. I didn’t stop when the urge to cut had escaped me. I continued to breathe in the cold air, ignoring the aromas of food, focusing only on the chill.