Page 352 of Faking the Goal

The worst part isn't even seeing Conrad beside her.

It's seeing Taylor beside Conrad.

I've gotten frighteningly good at reading her over the past few months. Most people would look at her now and see a woman slowly healing from a brutal attack.

I see every lie.

I see the way her shoulders stiffen whenever Conrad gets too close before she forces herself to relax.

I see the almost invisible flinch she swallows every time his hand brushes her arm or his fingers settle against the small of her back under the guise of helping her.

I see the smile she pastes onto her face, knowing it dies the instant he looks away.

Every one of those moments feels like someone is dragging a knife through my chest, twisting it a little deeper just to make sure I feel every inch of it.

She shouldn't have to do this.

She shouldn't have to laugh with the man who put her in a hospital bed.

She shouldn't have to thank him for opening a door.

She shouldn't have to pretend she feels safe standing beside the monster she's spent years trying to escape.

And the fact that she's doing it anyway...For us. For our future. For the chance that, when all of this is over, she can finally live without looking over her shoulders...

Makes me love her so much it physically hurts.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes for a brief second.

Just a little longer, Trouble.

Please...

Just a little longer.

Because when this is over...

I'm never letting that bastard anywhere near you again.

The moment Conrad's SUV disappears around the corner, I wait another thirty seconds before slipping out of my truck.

Detective Matthews insisted on it.

"Never move too soon. Assume he's checking his mirrors."

I hate that the advice has become second nature.

Keeping my head down, I circle the building and let myself in through the café's rear entrance. The familiar scent of fresh coffee and old paper greets me as I quietly make my way through the stockroom.

She's exactly where I knew she'd be.

Taylor stands behind the inventory table with a clipboard propped against one of the unopened cartons. Her brow is drawn in concentration as she checks titles against the packing list, the end of her pen caught between her teeth, and Christ, the way her lips wrap around it—my cock twitches hard against the seam of my jeans. I have to clench my jaw so tight I can feel the fillings in my back teeth.

"Fuck," I mouth, not making a sound.

Then she reaches up and gathers her hair into a ponytail. The graceful tilt of her head sends the ends of her ginger hair swaying before they settle against her shoulder. Just for a second, her neck is exposed: the delicate ridge of her spine, the pulse I can see jumping beneath her skin. One heartbeat. Two.

A slow, crooked smirk finds its way onto my face.