Page 75 of The Exit Strategy

The air that we shared.

The pure electricity that shoots between us when we touch.

It has to mean something. Right?

Rolling over, I groan into my pillow as defeat sets in.

Natalie tried to break my spirit.

Grace and Paul knocked me off-kilter.

Cole Whittaker will be the final hammer that shatters my heart made of glass.

My alarm goes off, and that momentary panic ofwhat nowsets in.

Because the only thing I’m certain of is that the feelings that keep combusting between us are not as one-sided as the six years of separation have led me to believe.

There’s something keeping him from acting, and knowing Cole, it’s something devastating.

His duty to those secrets will always keep him from choosing me, even if I’m 99.9 percent sure he wants to.

God, this is so frustrating, and it’s all boiling over before I’ve even gotten out of bed.

Flopping onto my back, I angrily swipe my hair out of my face when Nana Mae’s ring catches the early morning light.

I glare at it as if it’s the sole proprietor of all my anxiety.

Panic, fear, aggravation, love, and pain all attack my nervous system at once because of this stupid symbol that means too much and not enough.

Off. Get it off now!

My breathing is labored as I jump out of bed, make my way to the kitchen, then thrust my hand into the ice drawer.

Once upon a time, I dreamt of wearing Cole’s ring. It’s the vision of every childhood fantasy I’d ever had. Now it feels like a leash for a man who is incapable of choosing me, and that makes my lungs malfunction.

I tug on the diamond. “Come on. Get off. I need you to get off.”

I don’t need a man to choose me. I choose myself. I always have. How could I have so stupidly forgotten that?

Twisting and turning, the glittering symbol of love and devotion mocks me as it catches on my knuckle, but still, Ipull until the skin on my ring finger is raw and close to mangled.

“Please,” I beg. “It’s too much. I need you to get the fuck off my hand.”

Nothing works—not even my brain. That’s the only explanation I have for running down the stairs and bursting into Cole’s kitchen, catching him by surprise.

His hand pauses in the coffee beans, and it barely registers that he’s shirtless.

Whatever he sees on my face has him dropping the canister and gripping my biceps with a firm grip.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, scanning my body for injuries. “What happened?”

He’s too close. This is why we have boundaries. This is why emotional walls were erected in the first place.

“Juniper. Speak.”

His demand snaps me into the present. “I’m not a fucking dog.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me. You’re pale, you’re shaking, and your pupils are blown wide, but I can’t fix whatever the hell’s going on if you don’t talk to me.”