After We Fell (57 page)

“Tessa . . .” he growls.

I stand still, unmoving and unwavering. He has no reason to be short with me. Max's being a pompous jerk is in no way my fault. This is a typical Hardin Scott tantrum, and I'm not caving this time.

“You're only here for one night, remember?” I remind him and watch as the hardness and energy slip from his features. He continues to watch me, though, expecting a fight. I'm not giving him one.

“Dammit, you're right. I'm sorry,” he finally sighs, impressing me with this sudden change in his mood and his ability to calm himself down. “Come here.” He opens his arms, the way Hardin always does, and I walk into them, the way I haven't for so long. He doesn't say anything; he only wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on top of my head. His scent is overpowering, his breathing has slowed since his little hissy fit, and he is warm, so warm. Seconds, or maybe minutes later, he pulls away from me and presses his thumb under my chin.

“I'm sorry for being a dick. I don't know what my problem was. Max just bugs the shit out of me, or maybe it was the babysitting, or that obnoxious Stacey. I don't know, but I'm sorry.”

“Sasha.” I correct him with a smile.

“Same thing—a whore is a whore is a whore.”

“Hardin!” I gently swat at his chest. The muscles underneath
feel harder than I remember. He's been working out daily . . . briefly, my thoughts travel to what he looks like under his black T-shirt, and I wonder if his body has changed since I last laid eyes on it.

“Just saying.” He shrugs and brushes his fingertips over the soft line of my jaw. “I really am sorry. I don't want to ruin my time with you. Forgive me?”

His cheeks flush, and his voice is so soft, and his fingertips are gently scraping against my skin, and it feels so good. My eyes flutter closed as he traces the outline of my lips with his thumb.

“Answer me,” he softly presses.

“I always do, don't I?” I say with a breath. I rest both of my hands on his hips, my thumbs pressing into the bare skin under his T-shirt. I expect to feel his lips on mine, but when I open my eyes, his guard has been drawn up. I hesitate, but ask, “Is something wrong?”

“I had . . .” He stops midsentence. “I have a headache.”

“Do you need something? I can ask Kim if—”

“No, not her. I think I just need to sleep or something. It's late, anyway.”

My heart sinks at his words. What is going on with him, and why doesn't he want to kiss me again? Only moments ago he told me that he didn't want to ruin our short time together, yet now he wants to go to sleep?

I sigh out a quiet “Okay.” I'm not going to beg Hardin to stay awake and spend time with me. I'm embarrassed by his rejection, and honestly I do need a moment alone without his minty breath fanning across my cheeks and his green eyes piercing into mine, clouding the smidge of judgment I have left.

Still, I linger a little, waiting for him to ask if he can sleep in my room or vice versa.

He doesn't. “I'll see you in the morning, then?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure.” I leave the room before I embarrass myself further and lock my bedroom door behind me. Pathetically, I pad back across the room and unlock the door, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he will come through it.

F
uck.

Fuck.

I have been containing my anger, for the most part at least, all week. It's becoming harder and harder to do so when Zed keeps creeping his way into my head, and it's driving me fucking mad. I know I'm batshit crazy for obsessing over this, and I have no doubt Tessa would agree if I told her why I'm so wound up. It's not only Zed, it's Max and his mocking tone with Tessa, his whore and her gawking at me, Kimberly challenging me when I told Tessa to go upstairs—it's all one big fucking annoyance, and my control is slipping. I can feel my nerves being tightened to the brink of snapping, and the only way to relax them is to punch something or bury myself into Tessa and forget about everything; but I can't even fucking do that. I should be sinking myself inside of her right now, over and over until the goddamned sun comes up, to make up for the last week of hell without her touch.

Leave it to me to fuck this night up. I'm sure she's not surprised, though. It's what I do without fail, every time.

I lie down on the bed and stare back and forth between the ceiling and the clock. Eventually it's two in the morning. The annoying voices from the living room halted over an hour ago, and I was glad to hear the sounds of fawning goodbyes and then Vance and Kim's footsteps coming up the stairs.

From across the hall, I feel it. I feel the pull, the fucking magnetic charge, drawing me to Tessa and begging me to be at her
side. Ignoring the overwhelming electricity, I climb out of the bed and change into the clean black shorts that Tessa has folded and placed on the dresser. I know Vance has a gym in this massive house somewhere. I need to find it before I lose what's left of my fucking mind.

I
can't sleep. I've tried to close my eyes and block out the world, leave the chaos and stress of the mess that is my love life, but I can't. It's impossible. It's impossible to fight the irresistible power that draws me to Hardin's room, that begs me to be near him. He's being so distant, and I have to know why. I have to know if he's behaving this way because of something I did, or because of something I didn't do. I have to know that it had nothing to do with Sasha and her tiny gold dress, or Hardin losing interest in me.

I have to know.

Hesitantly, I climb out of the bed and tug on the small cord to bring the lamp to life. I pull the thin band from around my wrist and gather my hair into my hands, pulling it into a ponytail. As quietly as possible, I tiptoe across the hall and slowly turn the handle on the guest room door. It opens with a low creak, and I'm surprised to find the lamp on and the bed empty. A pile of black sheets and blankets are pushed against the edge of the bed, but Hardin isn't in the room.

My heart sinks at the thought that he's left Seattle and gone back home—to his home. I know things were awkward between us, but we should be able to talk about whatever it happens to be that is weighing on Hardin's mind. Scanning the room, I'm relieved to see his bag still on the floor, the piles of clean and folded clothes knocked over, but at least still there.

I've loved seeing the changes in Hardin since his arrival only hours ago. He's been sweeter, calmer, and he actually apologized
to me without me having to pull the words from him. Regardless of the fact that he's being cold and distant right now, I can't ignore the changes that a week apart seems to have made and the positive impact that the distance between us has had on him.

I quietly pad down the hallway in search of him. The house is dark, the only light coming from small night-lights lined along the floor of the halls. The bathrooms, living room, and kitchen are empty, and I don't hear a single noise coming from upstairs. He has to be upstairs, though . . . maybe he's in the library?

I keep my fingers crossed that I don't wake anyone during my search, and just as I close the door to the dark and empty library, I see a thin line of light creeping from the door at the end of the long corridor. During my brief stay here, I haven't made it to this part of the house, though I think Kimberly had vaguely indicated that this is where the theater and the gym are. Apparently, Christian spends hours in the gym.

The door is unlocked, and I push it open with ease. I feel a momentary spark of worry as I entertain the idea that it's Christian, not Hardin, who's in the room. That would be incredibly awkward, and I pray it isn't the case.

All four walls of the room are mirrored from floor to ceiling and lined with large, intimidating machines, a treadmill being the only recognizable one. Weights and more weights cover the far wall, and most of the floor is padded. My eyes move to the mirrored walls, and my insides liquefy at the sight of them. Hardin—four Hardins, actually—are reflected in the mirrors. He's shirtless, and his movements are aggressively quick. His hands are wrapped in the same black tape that I've seen on Christian's each day this week.

Hardin's back is to me, his hard muscles straining under pale skin as he lifts his foot to kick the large black bag hanging from the ceiling. His fist strikes out next; a loud thud follows his movement, and he repeats it with the other fist. I watch as he continues
to punch and kick the bag; he looks so angry, and hot, and sweaty, and I can barely think straight as I watch him.

With swift movements, he hits with his left leg, then his right, and then both fists smash into the bag with such fluidity, it's incredible to watch. His skin is shining and covered in sweat, and his chest and stomach look slightly different than before, more defined. He simply looks . . . larger. The metal chain attached to the ceiling looks like it's going to snap from the force of Hardin's aggression. My mouth is dry, and my thoughts are sluggish as I watch him and listen to the angry groans that escape as he begins using only his fists against the bag.

I don't know if it's the soft moan that falls from my lips at watching him, or if he somehow felt my presence, but he suddenly stops. The bag continues to sway on its chain, and while keeping his eyes on me, Hardin reaches out one hand to stop it.

I don't want to be the first to speak, but he gives me no choice as he continues to stare at me with wide and angry eyes.

“Hey,” I say, my voice hoarse and tiny.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “Hi,” he says, panting.

“What, um”—I try to contain myself—“what are you doing?”

“Couldn't sleep,” he breathes heavily. “What're
you
doing up?” He gathers his black T-shirt from the floor and wipes the moisture from his face. I gulp. I can't seem to find the strength to look away from his sweat-soaked body.

“Um, same as you. Couldn't sleep.” I smile weakly, and my eyes flicker to his toned torso, the muscles moving in sync with his hard breaths.

He nods; his eyes don't meet mine, and I can't help but ask, “Did I do something? If I did, we could just talk about it and work it out.”

“No, you didn't do anything.”

“Then tell me what's wrong, please, Hardin. I need to know what's going on.” I gather as much confidence as I can manage.
“Do you . . . never mind.” The ounce of confidence I had slips away under his stare.

“Do I what?” He sits down on a long black cushion, which I think is some sort of weight bench. After wiping the T-shirt over his face again, he wraps it around his head, restraining his dampened mess of hair.

The impromptu headband is oddly endearing and very attractive, so much so that I find myself fumbling for words. “I'm just beginning to wonder if maybe, possibly, you . . . you're starting to not like me as much as you did.” The question sounded much better inside of my head. When said out loud, it sounds pathetic and needy.

“What?” He drops his hands onto his knees. “What are you talking about?”

“Are you still as attracted to me . . . physically?” I ask. I wouldn't feel so ashamed or insecure if he hadn't rejected me earlier tonight. That, and if Ms. Long Legs Short Dress hadn't been fawning over him right in front of me. Not to mention the way his eyes lingered as they slowly took in her body . . .

“What . . . where is this coming from?” As his chest rises and falls, the sparrows inked just under his collarbone appear to be fluttering along with his breathing.

“Well . . .” Although I take a few steps farther into the room, I make sure to leave a few feet between Hardin and me. “Earlier . . . when we were kissing . . . you stopped, and you've barely touched me since, and then you just up and went to bed.”

“You actually think that I'm not attracted to you anymore?” He opens his mouth to continue but suddenly closes it again and sits silently.

“It
has
crossed my mind,” I admit. The padded flooring has suddenly become fascinating as I stare down at it.

“That is fucking insane,” he begins. “Look at me.” My eyes
meet his, and he sighs deeply before continuing. “I can't begin to fathom why you would ever consider the notion that I'm not attracted to you, Tessa.” He seems to think over his response and adds, “Well, I guess I can see why you would think that because of how I acted earlier, but it's not true; that literally could not be further from the fucking truth.”

The ache in my chest slowly begins to dissolve. “Then what is it?”

“You're going to think I'm fucking morbid.”

Oh no.

“Why? Tell me, please,” I beg him. I watch as frustrated fingers run over the slight stubble on his chin; it's barely there, probably only a day's worth of not shaving.

“Just hear me out before you get mad, okay?”

I nod slowly, an action that completely contradicts the paranoid thoughts that are beginning to flutter through me.

“I had this dream, well, nightmare, actually . . .”

My chest tightens, and I pray that it's not as bad as he's making it out to be. Half of me is relieved that he's upset over a nightmare, not an actual event, but the other half aches for him. He's been alone all week, and it hurts to know that his nightmares have returned.

“Go on,” I gently encourage him.

“About you . . . and Zed.”

Oh boy.
“What do you mean?” I ask.

“He was at our—
my
—apartment, and I came home to find him in between your legs. You were moaning his name and—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say, raising a hand to stop him.