Page 25 of Love What's Left
“It’s your necklace. You used to wear it nearly every day. You loved it because it reminded you of our honeymoon.” I tap the gold charm. “It also has a location tracker in it. If you’re wearing it, I can find you faster if you need me. You decide if you want it or not. If it makes you feel safer, it’s yours.”
She bites her chapped lower lip, then closes her hand around the jewelry before pressing it against her chest. Slowly, she turns her head toward me. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah.” Emotion chokes my words. “Yes. I could eat.”
She slides the necklace into her pocket. “I eat if you eat.”
11
Sydney
Imust be in shock. Why else would I feel so unbothered to learn that the man who calls me his wife has killed someone? Or that the necklace he gave me could track me?
But he defended me. Protected me from the man who wants to ask me questions and use me for bait.Hedoesn’t want to use me. He brought me to this place to find peace, and I’m grateful for it because, even if this turns out to be a trick, it’s a reprieve.
This man killed the person who tortured me. That’s enough for me to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I’ve woken from a long sleep. The roar of the surf is real. So is the heat of the sun on my face and the air in my lungs. The teak deck beneath my feet, the necklace in my pocket, and cotton against my skin aren’t a dream. The man who stands beside me saved me.
“He’ll kill you too. He’s dangerous and now you have proof,”a voice inside reminds me.
He couldend my life with his bare hands. Somehow, I know that’s true. My brain says to run, but my body reacts with ingrained muscle memory that wants me to melt against him.
If he’d hurt me in the past, wouldn’t I flinch from him? Instead, when he placed the gold seashell necklace in my palm, his hand under mine, I fought the urge to flip my hand over and cling to his.
A tracker should terrify me, but he could have kept it a secret. Instead, he gave me a choice. It’s another promise of protection.
I follow him into a kitchen so pretty that my chest fills with something I don’t recognize. No wonder I didn’t believe him. He looks like a movie star, he’s too patient to be real, and this place is beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined.
He opens the outrageously expensive refrigerator. “Why don’t you take a look and see what you’d like? I can heat up soup, or we could make sandwiches.”
I peer around him. So much food. The fridge is full of everything from an entire layer cake to fruit and pre-cut veggies to cheeses and yogurt and juice and more.
I close the fridge and open cabinet doors, one after the other. It has to be here.
He nods toward a full-size door. “If you’re looking for your peanut butter, it’s in the pantry on the shelf to the left.”
I find it exactly where he said it would be and return to set the jar on the island counter.
“Great choice.” He walks to the island and pulls out a cutting board and chef’s knife from the drawers. Then he drags a loaf of whole wheat bread across the shiny quartz countertop, spreads exactly the right consistency of peanut butter across the slices of bread, and plucks two apples from a ceramic bowl. After washing, then coring them, he slices the apples into thin wafers, then layers them over the peanut butter.
He does know me. I’ve never met anyone else who ate whole wheat, peanut butter, and apple sandwiches the way I do.
He inclines his head toward the cabinet behind me. “Can you grab the plates and a couple of glasses?”
I open the cabinet. On impulse, I retrieve two dessert plates, as well. He builds the sandwiches, cutting each one into two triangles, and I return to the refrigerator, remove the chocolate cake and, with shaking hands, slice off two pieces.
Skirting around him, I walk to the small round table set in the nook overlooking the ocean. After I set the table, he carries our sandwiches over, then sets down a carafe of water with sliced strawberries and mint leaves floating in it. I don’t remember ever drinking something like that before, but sense immediately that I’ll love it.
I pass him a slice of cake.
He holds eye contact. “Thank you.”
I wait for him to take a bite of his sandwich. When he does, I reach out and swap his sandwich for mine. He doesn’t protest, merely picks up the new one I’ve given him and takes another bite. When I eye my glass of water, he reaches across, takes a swig, then passes it back.
”Thank you,” I say.
His lips curve. “Anytime.”
