“The alarm,” I say softly.
She turns and looks toward the wall. “We’ll arm it before we go to bed.”
“No,” I whisper. “I ran out of the house that night and didn’t turn it on.” I see the pieces clicking together in her mind—my reminders to her about the alarm, the detail in which I taught her how to use it.
“Oh, Slade, you have to know . . .”
“My dad used to remind me about it all the time. When I came in after being out with friends or something. He’d always remind me to arm it.” A confession only works if you tell the whole truth. I look over at the picture of my mom and me, silently apologizing to her like I have so many times. “That night, my dad asked if I turned it on when I got in the car, and I lied and said yes.”
Reaching up, she takes my face in her hands. “You don’t know if having the alarm on would’ve made a difference or not.”
She hasn’t said it, but she must love me. This is how I know. When you love someone, you believe the best about them, not the worst. You give them a pass. You can always tell when a relationship is going south because you are all too happy to believe the worst about the other person. Clearly, Paige is in the love is blind stage.
Yanking my head back, I say, “The police said my mom probably surprised them. They panicked and killed her.”
“Even they don’t know that for sure,” Paige says.
“My dad made it very clear that it was my fault,” I say, leaving out the slap across the face that accompanied that verbal lashing.
“He said that? He actually said that your mother’s death was your fault?”
A simple nod answers her question.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He was out of his mind with grief.”
“That wasn’t the only time he said it,” I say. “And it doesn’t matter how many times he said it or not. It was my fault. I knew to arm the alarm. I could’ve told my dad I forgot and gone back inside. Hell, I could’ve called my mom and told her I forgot to set it and asked her to do it. But I didn’t do any of those things, and she’s dead.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
“I’ve never told anyone that story, but I wanted you to know.” She inches closer to me, holding my eyes to hers. “When we first met, you asked me why I cared. Why I got you away from my dad, gave you a job?”
“I remember.”
“You remind me of her,” I say, shaking my head, thinking how totally fucked up that sounds. “Not that you look alike or anything, but she was strong and didn’t take shit from anyone. I don’t know why exactly, but you just made me think of her, and I had this overwhelming need to protect you.”
“And ultimately drive through a tornado to get to me,” she says, shaking her head a little and smiling at the same time.
“I love you.”
I watch my words sink into her skin like water into a sponge, taking them in, not squeezing them out, fighting.
“I wanted you to know exactly who I am. Why I fought this for so long. It wasn’t about you. It was about me, my shit.”
“You were scared,” she whispers. “Scared to love someone so much.”
I hate admitting that. I pride myself on not operating out of a place of fear, but the truth is, that’s how I’ve operated in my personal life. Paige and I have that in common. “It’s not perfect . . .”
“Nothing is perfect. Not even love,” she says, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Ask me. Ask me again if I love you.”
I already know the answer. A bigger question pops into my mind.
“Marry me?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SLADE
“Are you insane?” she asks.
Not exactly the response I thought I’d get when proposing marriage. “For wanting to marry you?” I ask with a big ass grin.
“For wanting to marry me now!” she cries, lightly pushing on my shoulder. “I’m twenty-one.”
“I’m thirty.”
“I have a baby to raise,” she says.
“I’ve met Finn.”
“As you pointed out earlier, we haven’t even gone on our first date.”
“We’ll have one before the wedding,” I counter.
“I haven’t even told you I love you.”
“You do.”
“Maybe I should rethink that,” she says through a smile.
“Tell me why we shouldn’t get married?” I ask.
“I have been,” she says. “Have you not been listening to me?”
“Those were reasons?” I ask with a grin. “Any other so-called reasons?”
“I’m sure there are.”
“Like?” I ask.
“Like we haven’t known each other that long,” she says.
“Long enough.”
“We’ve barely just got together,” she says.
“I’ve been committed since day one,” I say.
“I seem to recall a cake-eating bimbo that indicates differently.”
Not much I can say to that. “I’ll never hurt you again, not on purpose.”
“Slade,” she says, her voice soft—an apology for bringing it all back up. She knows I never touched that woman. She knows I was just trying to push her away. She knows how sorry I am.
“Are you saying no?” I ask.
“I’m saying it’s too fast. It’s too soon. There are things you don’t know about . . .”
“Like what?” I challenge her. I know she’s keeping some shit from me and am more than curious if she’ll tell me. No matter what it is, it wouldn’t change my mind. When you know, you know. Why wait?
“Like. . .” She struggles for words, her arms flying around, searching for something to say. “Like how I am in bed. We haven’t even slept together. What if we don’t have chemistry?”
“We can figure that out right now. The bedroom’s upstairs,” I say. “Hell, there’s a sofa. A desk. The floor would work.” Her eyes roll as she laughs at me. “Seriously, that’s not what you’re really concerned about.”
She wraps her arms around my waist. “You told me you’d give me what I need.”
Crap, I hate it when my words come back to bite me in the ass.
“And I need us to go slow.”
I can’t deny her, and she knows it. Reluctantly, I say, “Okay.”
“Promise you’ll ask me again sometime,” she says.
“I will, and I’ll do the whole down on one knee, big diamond thing. The whole bit.”
Laying her head on my shoulder, she whispers, “I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
PAIGE
Twelve ninety-nine times seven?
Quickly, I do the math in my head. That’s going to be a hundred bucks with tax. My heart rate spikes. I should’ve said something when Slade suggested the mall to shop for Finn. I should’ve told him to go to a discount store or consignment shop—the places I normally shop. But for Slade, the mall is probably slumming it.