Secret surrender, p.11
Secret Surrender, page 11
Or maybe the breakup has affected me worse than I thought, and I’m starting to lose my marbles…
Maybe.
Still, she had a choice here. Say exactly what bothered her, or clam up as she always did, which hadn’t gotten her all that far, now had it?
She swallowed hard and readied to speak, her thoughts snagging on the man beside her and how the heat from his skin seared into hers. In that moment, she wished for their usual scuffles or for him to kiss her again—to pull her from the everyday humdrum of being sad, unfortunate, and bitter Sarah Overton.
The silence here was too dangerous. So, she drew back the intrusive self-pity long enough to decide that talking beat overthinking.
“For a time there, I was both Mommy and Daddy.”
Eighteen
Sarah’s fingers paused around the needle, just before she placed the fourth stitch into Dean’s wound. She pressed her lips together and second-guessed what she’d just admitted—that her childhood had been weighed down by far more stress and responsibility than she should have borne.
Dean turned and took hold of her hand. She winced, his touch the very thing she needed to avoid.
“You’re shaking. Take a break.”
Her heart strained at his open stare and hushed tone, a tone that matched his gentle hold and echoed within the tight confines of his bathroom.
“You’re right.” She struggled to look him in the eye, so she dropped her attention to his large hand over hers, a strong hand that belonged to someone who’d lived a hard life, perhaps not too dissimilar to hers, though maybe in different ways.
What is his story, anyway?
“I can probably manage the rest, if you like.” He moved to take the needle from her, but she snatched it away. No chance she would make him stitch himself up simply because she was having a moment. She’d be okay. She always found a way to be okay.
And seriously, who was Dean? What with visits from the sheriff and the next-level first aid kit, then Dean’s seeming comfort with patching himself up…
“The sheriff’s invested in me because he’s looked out for me since I was seventeen.” She met his gaze, not one to shy away now that she’d made the decision to open up. “My family were model citizens here in Harlow. Dad had a respectable job, and the bar belonged to my mom’s family, who’d been in Harlow for as long as anyone can remember. So, when my dad skipped out on Mom, it was a shock to everyone, especially her. She had a breakdown, and Sheriff Marlin was there the day she threw all our furniture out onto the front lawn, including smashing every antique in the house. It was a huge scene that no one’s forgotten, though I wouldn’t say she was angry, so much as manic and completely broken.”
“And that’s why you said I should have called your dad?” Dean’s brows squeezed together, his expression contorted in a look of concern. “That’s how you see Sheriff Marlin, like a father?”
She nodded, the strain in her body easing a little since at least she was the one telling this story and not one of the townsfolk. “Peter got Aggie McKey to swing by and look out for my brother and me, while he drove my mom to the nearest hospital. To this day, Mom still struggles to look after her own basic needs. She was never the same after that. Our entire family has never been the same.”
“That’s why your brother lives in Boston?”
She nodded again. “Our family is scattered across the country. With Mom no longer an option, Chip was too young to stay in the house with me, so he had to live with my dad and his mistress.”
The intensity in Dean’s stare grew. “And you stayed in Harlow, alone?”
“My dad destroyed our family, and no one dared force me to stay with him. I was less than a year from being legally independent, not that I wasn’t independent already. So, what I couldn’t do for myself, Sheriff Marlin and Aggie took care of, including running Maynard’s.”
Dean settled back, as if her explanation somewhat satisfied his curiosity. He handed her the needle. “And while you already had too much on your plate, you also promised to keep an eye out for Ally?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. The lead-up to Chip leaving town had been a frenzied affair. “Ally and Chip were always close. He was devastated to leave her, more than anyone else in this town besides me. And while I lost a brother, she lost her best friend. She’s been somewhat socially aimless ever since, though we’ve gotten closer over the years.”
Dean frowned at the ground before his attention landed on her, his expression quick to lighten. “I like this.”
“What?” She let loose with a big smile and made her fourth stitch. “Me repeatedly stabbing you with a needle?”
He hissed, a rich chuckle soon rumbling through his chest. “Well, you are exceptionally good at that, and I like your confidence, but what I really mean is, I like when we’re not fighting. When we’re just talking and I get even the tiniest glimpse into who you are.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll just be another moment. So don’t get comfortable with any of that.”
Despite her cynical reply, she too liked the ease of this exchange, even if she did focus on the needle in order to avoid his intent stare. Besides, maybe part of why she found it so easy to talk with him was that he didn’t already know her entire life, unlike ninety percent of people in this town, so he didn’t have a stack of town gossip weighing down his opinions of her.
She tugged the needle out of him and tied the thread’s end. He outstretched a hand and cupped her cheek. She nuzzled into his touch for the briefest second before her heartbeat seemed to pause, and she pulled back, scared he might kiss her again.
“Don’t.”
He flexed his brow, seeming more concerned than annoyed. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He took his hand back. “Now you’re touching me.”
“I’m patching you up. There’s a difference.” She swallowed against the thickness gathering in her throat and peered at her fingers around the needle, bloodied and shaking.
“Listen.” He turned to her more fully, his widened pupils pleading for her attention. “You were honest with me, and I want to be honest with you. We’ve established that when I first got to town, I had no intention of staying. What I haven’t told you is that you’re the number one reason I’m still here. Sarah, my past isn’t so rosy either. I want a new start.”
She scoffed, her heart rate exploding at his certainty when she was everything but. “And you figured I’d be your fresh start?”
“Why shouldn’t you be my fresh start?” His direct stare held hers, awaiting a reply, which only came in the form of her taking her final stitch and him squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a relative stranger.” Again, she focused on her stitching, her movements quick but tight.
“We’re more similar than you’d like to see.”
She lifted her attention to his weak smile. She schooled her face in what she hoped would be a flat stare. “That sounds truly ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“Not ridiculous. Simple.” He gave a small shrug, eyeing her work. “In that, I like you, you like me.”
“Not so simple.” She snipped the final stitch and wiped down his wound with a final dab of alcohol. “You’ll only break your own heart.”
An aching silence stretched between them while she washed her hands and everything from the kit that she’d used, her face hot the entire time. She wanted to steer clear of him and his plans—overly idyllic plans she’d heard a thousand times from various other people. She’d learned to guard her heart, and she was right about him also needing to.
“Sarah.”
She kept herself busy returning to the bath’s edge to jam tools back into the first aid kit.
“Sarah.”
She swiped up the kit and ferried it back to its drawer, eager to hightail out of there as quickly as possible.
“Sarah.” He grabbed her wrist before she could get too far, spinning her back around to face him, that cobalt stare not leaving her face. “Like you, I haven’t been all that in control of what happened to me. All I meant is I want that to change.”
His tone had turned softer, and he gave his head a slow but certain shake. The quiet expanded between them in an unexplainable and never-before-felt pull—one that seemed to halt time and draw her in—despite her resistance. “What were you thinking that night at the soiree, the moment just before you bumped into me?”
What had she been thinking about? About how alone she was and how she always seemed to get the rough end of any relationship she dared to engage in. And why would any of that change now? Especially with a man as enigmatic as Dean?
I have zero reason to trust him.
She blinked, the moment bursting like an overfull balloon. “I’ve said enough about me and still know nothing about you.”
He stood and she backed away, the action increasing the unspoken distance between them. “What do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure. Why did the sheriff call you a person of interest in the shooting?”
“He went digging around in my past and figured he found something.” He stared at her a moment, his expression unreadable, before he turned to the door.
Despite getting what she wanted—a reason to leave—she slammed the first aid kit to the sink’s counter and picked up her pace, following him down the hall and stopping just shy of the room he’d entered. His bedroom.
“And what did the sheriff find?” She peered inside. Though his house didn’t have much furniture, her attention caught on two small shelves either side of his bed. Not just shelves, but bookshelves. Filled to busting with books.
He reads? This man reads?
Her thoughts slipped to the soiree and his suggestion that “ninth-grade English” was about as far as his exposure to literature went—that memory alighting an inkling that he maybe tended to downplay his more refined points by a whole lot.
He let out an exasperated sigh, which made her attention shift back to him as he turned to her with a clean shirt in his hand and shadows taking up space under his eyes. “He found out about my old job, and that it didn’t end well.”
He tugged his shirt over his head and down his body. His sharp movements were a strong hint she should let the subject go for now, even while the information provided new details about this man, only to awaken more questions.
He has a story. One he isn’t so eager to tell.
Seems he’s not all that wrong about our similarities…
He drew near, and his gaze connected with hers in what could only be described as a molten stare. Her pulse quickened, his grin suddenly easy and bracketed with deep dimples. “You and I both know I wasn’t there when Blaine Callaghan got shot.”
There was Blaine’s name coming from Dean’s lips. An unwanted dose of reality. This sultry man’s reminder of what they’d been doing when all hell broke loose.
A weak ache gripped her chest, but his close proximity held her in place. “In our own ways, we could be good for each other.”
“Except in this small town, people will see us together and get to gossiping. With all that’s happened, I don’t need whispers following me everywhere I go.”
And still, a light fluttery feeling worked through her tummy and out into her limbs, as though she actually considered his proposition, if for no other reason than she wanted to know his story.
Oh no, don’t lie. It’s so much more than that.
Right. Like remembering just how alive, and wanted, and seen she felt in his presence, especially when he made love to her—fanciful emotions ill-fitted to her or her reputation. But she was a living, breathing woman, wasn’t she? And maybe. Just maybe. There were things she did want.
He saw her waning resolve—like he knew that all he had to do was push just a little harder and all her protests would fold to his feet—and he lifted his hand to her cheek again and said, “Sarah, no one else needs to know.”
Nineteen
“What about the sheriff? He knows about us.”
Sarah ran her attention over the details of Dean’s face, who stared back at her. Maybe he could read the clash of desire and doubt churning her tummy. Maybe his offer that “no one else needed to know” about this relationship meant she could have what she wanted, him, and keep that want a secret. Or maybe his proposal was all too simplistic.
“The sheriff won’t tell anyone, and you know it.” He shrugged, his hand still resting on her cheek.
“You’re right, he won’t.” She clawed her fingers into the bedroom door frame, her focus unwittingly shifting to his bed with its masculine plain white sheets and dark blue throw. “But nothing stays a secret in Harlow.”
“Sarah?” His attention followed to where hers had been, to the bed and back to her, her heartbeat skipping since it didn’t take a genius to know where her mind had gone.
He held her, even as the tight tugging in her chest told her to step away from him and his bedroom.
She blinked up at him, slow and heavy, regretting every second she failed to run. “What?”
The breathiness in her voice alone opened a hollow within her. She didn’t want to leave. Begged for a reason to stay. Even if staying should have been the last thing she wanted.
And of course because of that conflict, she didn’t run when he leaned in close—so close that the smallest nudge would bring their lips together. “We could pretend we hate each other.”
She slammed her eyes shut, feeling stupid and numb and exhilarated all at once. “Sorry?”
He’d reduced her to a bumbling mess, and all it took was his simple touch—a simple touch that permeated through her body in gentle waves, seizing her ability to do the smart thing and leave.
“What if we let people believe we hate each other?” His thumb rubbed a firm line over her cheek, that caress seeming to plead with her to hear him out, to tip her chin upward and just kiss him. “We’ll trash talk each other to anyone who’ll listen, throw in a few public squabbles. No one will suspect a thing.”
“Dean…” She shook her head.
“It could work.”
“It could, but—”
“If outright hate is too strong, then we can fake indifference.” His voice was a soft whisper, words meant for her alone, words that melted her so much that she didn’t hesitate to close her eyes the moment he leaned in and pressed a soft but quick kiss to her lips.
How had she gotten here? She’d stormed into his house in search of confrontation, fully prepared never to speak to him again, and here she stood now, caving to the low thrum of need spreading roots throughout her body.
“Just give my idea a try. Can you at least do that?” His attention swept over her face, his soft focus pleading with her. “Tomorrow night, I’ll come to Maynard’s. You’ll get to pretend to be the biggest bitch you can muster—”
“Would it even be pretending?”
His lips stretched into a grin. “No comment. Either way, whatever you dish out, I’ll take and I’ll give right back. We can have fun with this. If my plan doesn’t work, we’ll call this whole thing quits. I promise.”
A slow smile tugged at her lips. She could unashamedly slam Dean’s pride in public, while having her fill of him in private. The best of two worlds.
She gave a small nod, only for his lips to crash down over hers like that small nod was something he’d been waiting for his entire life. And maybe it was. Maybe she’d been waiting her whole life too. Not for Dean exactly, but to give herself permission to be free, even if it was with just this one thing. With him.
He scooped her up and carried her to his bed.
So much for him putting on a new shirt. Even as his mouth ravaged hers, her fingers clawed and pulled at the loose cotton over his shoulders. She wanted him and his naked body over hers, and within moments, that’s exactly what she had.
He made love to her hard and fast—taking his fill, while she took hers—two people who’d waited far too long. Two people who could only ever be themselves around each other.
She arched into him. Clung to him. Her cries were wild and unabashed and a release in more ways than one. All while he took her, his stare pitching a challenge for her to break first. Or maybe there was more to her need and his demanding than two people seeking a thrill—a universe of buried pain and unspoken dreams.
He wanted. She wanted to run. That much was clear. But there was no escaping this—this moment where she relinquished control and relished all he had to give—his breaths exploding against her skin, his length swelling within her and pushing her to her limits.
Her heartbeat climbed at the intensity of it all. Of Dean and everything he drew from her.
She couldn’t hold on any longer, and her eyes slammed shut, her hands coming away from him to claw at the bedsheets. Every muscle in her body bunched as a deep cry tore from low in her chest. For once in her life, she was happy to lose. Happy to break.
He picked up the pace and broke along with her, his face buried at her neck, his kisses tracing the tendon there.
This wasn’t love. Not by a long shot.
But she loved how he felt, how he let her be someone else, or perhaps more herself than ever before. Either way, if tonight was all about making love, tomorrow would be nothing but all-out war.
Twenty
“I don’t call being in the wrong place at the wrong time heroic.”
One day after making her pact with Dean, Sarah put on her flattest, most bored expression and leaned a hip against the bar, even as Ally’s cheeks took on a sudden red glow, her eyes flaring in disbelief.
“Gee, Sarah, ease up.” Ally flicked an apologetic cringe to Dean sandwiched between her and Aggie, while an out-of-uniform Sheriff Marlin sat farther to the left. “If Dean hadn’t interrupted the Chadley boys, Aggie might not have a nursery left at all. And what about my painted pots? Those things take me ages to make, and they’re kinda spendy to put together too. Those little vandals could have smashed the lot.”
