"Because I love you, Abby."
She shivers, and a tear runs down her cheek. "I’ve waited so long for you to say that, but now, I’m not sure that you mean it."
"Believe me, Abby."
She firms her lips, "Why should I believe you, when all you’ve done is be nasty to me and lie to me at every turn?"
I swallow, glance around the room looking for answers, then glance down at the floor in front of me. I bend one knee, then the other, until I’m kneeling on the floor. When I glance up at her, she’s looking at me with a stunned expression. At least, she hasn’t yet left the room, which is a start.
"I’m sorry, Abby. So very sorry. All I’m asking is that you give me the opportunity to make it up to you. Please, Sparrow, because we’ve known each other for so long. Because your brother is my best friend. Because the only consistent thing in my life so far has been you. It’s thoughts of you that got me through my darkest days. It was the goal of seeing you again, of having you smile, of smelling you, tasting you, holding you in my arms that gave me the drive to keep going. When I was beaten up and in the hospital, it was the dreams I had of tracking you down and making sure our paths collided that was the push I needed to reform my life. I’m nothing without you, Abby. Nothing. And I know I don’t deserve you. I know I’m not worth the dirt beneath your feet, but if you have even one iota of feeling for me, please, please give me the chance to make it up to you. That’s all I’m asking you—a chance—I’m begging you, I—"
She walks over to me and places a finger on my mouth. "Shh, Cade, please get up."
I shake my head. "Not until you say you forgive me."
"This is so unfair. You can’t go pulling out all the stops like this. You can’t plead your case with such sincerity. You can’t come across as being all contrite and remorseful and repentant, and actually seem to mean it."
"But I do mean it. I do. Just give me a chance, Abby, that’s all I ask."
She squeezes her eyes shut and draws in a breath.
I wait. And wait. The seconds stretch. My entire body feels like it’s frozen. It feels like I’m out of my body, looking down on this scene. I’ve never felt this…discombobulated in my life. I keep my gaze on her face, and then she nods. A slight quick jerk of her chin, but she nods.
The tension drains from my shoulders. The oxygen rushes into my lungs. My head spins a little—a familiar sensation when it comes to her.
"Okay, I haven’t forgiven you yet, but I’ll give you one chance, Cade." She opens her eyelids and looks down at me. "One chance."
"That’s all I need. You won’t regret it, Abby, I promise."
She lowers her hand to her side. "Now please, can you get to your feet?"
I rise and promptly sway. Fuck, standing out in the rain must have tired me more than I realized. She grips my arm. “Come on, sit down, I’ve got you a cup of tea.”
I allow her to lead me to her bed then sink down. She fetches me the cup and hands it over. I glance down at it, noting the tea bag she’s dunked into the water. I sniff the liquid and almost gag, managing to hide it, barely.
"It’s chamomile. It’ll help warm you up and soothe you, at the same time."
Fucking hell. Knew it! Clearly, this is my new nemesis. Fucking chamomile. Whoever invented it has, obviously, never experienced the vile taste of the concoction they’re responsible for.
I take a sip, force it down my throat, then shoot her what I hope is a gentle smile. "It’s good."
"It is?"
I nod. "Great stuff. Really does warm the bones." I take another sip, my stomach heaves, but I swallow down the nasty brew.
"I’m really pleased it’s helping. Never could stand the taste myself."
Bloody fuck! Trapped again. This whole being nice thing really is challenging.
She turns toward the chair, and I glance around, wondering if I can pour out the contents of my mug. But then she moves toward me with a bath robe in her hands and holds it out.
"You don’t have to drink it, if you don’t like it,” she murmurs.
"Like it? I love it, baby. I’d drink poison if you gave it to me with your own hands." Which, I’m beginning to suspect, is what this is.
She rolls her eyes. "Now you’re being dramatic."
"Just stating a fact." I lift the mug and drain it. "There, all done."
She accepts the mug from me, then holds out the bathrobe. "That’s the biggest thing I have in my wardrobe… It might be too small for you."
I rise to me feet, then shrug on the bathrobe. It stretches across my shoulders and comes to mid-thigh. I barely manage to knot the belt around my waist before I whip off the towel. She holds out her hand for the towel, then giggles.
"What?" I stare down at what I’m wearing. "Pink not my color?"
"It has a certain appeal on you." She chuckles.
"I could take it off, but I’d rather not. I’m serious, Abby, I’m not going to waste this chance you’ve given me.
"Okay,"—she accepts the towel from me—"want something to eat?"
55
Abby
"That was excellent." He breaks off a piece of bread, scoops up the rest of the pasta-sauce with it and pops it into his mouth. He closes his eyes and makes a humming sound as he chews. The cords of his neck flex as he swallows, and moisture dampens the space between my legs.
My mouth waters, and it’s not because of the enticing smell of the pasta I heated up for him in the kitchen. Sitting opposite me at the breakfast counter, wearing that ridiculous pink bathrobe—which does nothing to detract from his gorgeousness—he’s still sex on a stick. He’ll always be sex on a stick, no matter how old he gets. And is that what I want? To grow old with him? Am I ready to forgive him because he went on his knees for me?
The answer is, I want to. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to. I’m not sure if I can trust him…yet. Can someone really change their ways because they love another person enough? Does he love me enough? It’s the second time he’s said so, and this time, he did seem to mean it, and yet… Something inside me is still not ready to forgive him. Damn. Did he push me so much that I’ve become one of those hard to please, cynical people who don’t believe in the good side of others anymore? I hope not. Still… It’s okay to take time to make up my mind, right?
He snaps his eyelids open and regards me with those mismatched eyes. "It’s okay to take your time," he says softly.
Huh? Did he read my mind? Was he thinking the same thing as me? Are we really so much more on the same wavelength than we were before? Physically, we’ve always been compatible. He’ll always be the man who took my virginity and gave me the kind of orgasms I’m confident no one else can rival, but emotionally… Can I be vulnerable with him? Will he treat me with enough tenderness, enough respect that I know no-one else can make me feel as special as he does?
"You’re it for me, baby. You’re what makes my life worth living. You’re real, vital, special. There’s no one else like you for me in this world, you—"