Find Me (The Found Duet #2)(32)
Author: Laurelin Paige

And while he’d had all that to deal with, I was screwing my best friend’s brother-in-law. For fun. Much younger brother-in-law. My stomach churned.

“But it’s over now.” I said it to make myself feel better. And because he’d seemed dodgy when I’d asked it before.

“The trial’s over. Right.” It hadn’t been what I asked, and he didn’t look at me, but maybe I was reading into things. “Ralphio is behind bars tonight. That feels good. I never thought I’d be a vindictive person, but I’d be pleased as fuck if he gets the death penalty.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“Because he ran, yeah. But even if it’s just life in prison, I’m happy. As long as his life can’t go on anymore.”

It reminded me of what JC had said on the stand. How he’d died when Corinne died. As much as it hurt to believe that meant he couldn’t ever love anyone like her—could never love me like her—I also felt like that was fair. So maybe it didn’t matter what I’d done with Chandler, because JC was never mine to betray.

But he had been mine. Even if I hadn’t been his, he’d been mine and I had betrayed that.

Though, none of it probably mattered if all this was leading to our goodbye.

I looked away, wrapping my arms around myself as I shivered. The day was already rather warm. Yet I felt so cold.

“What are you thinking?”

I shook my head, not ready to say what I needed to say. But I knew he wouldn’t let me get away with leaving it at that—huh, maybe there were things I knew about him after all. “I’m just grateful he’s finally put away.” I forced a smile, but it felt tight.

JC cocked his head at me. His expression said that he could see I was hiding something, which just added to my guilt. I was a coward, though.

And it hadn’t bought me any time, really, because now we were at my apartment building. I stopped and turned to him, wanting to say something audacious even though I hadn’t figured out exactly what that would be. Knowing the thing to do was confess.

He gave me another excuse to wait. “Can I walk you up?”

Yes. I could tell him upstairs, outside my door so that I could run inside and hide afterward.

But wanting to walk me up was another thing that confused me, and I almost swore he meant for me to feel that way. Meant for me to be mixed up and befuddled. Why did he want to? Would he want to come in my apartment as well? Because he wanted to touch me as badly as I wanted to touch him?

Or did he simply have more words that he, also like me, hadn’t gotten the nerve to say yet?

Either way, I had a gut-level sense that letting him accompany me farther would put me in a very vulnerable position, which was funny considering I was the one who had shit to say now. Down here, though, I could spill my guts and be the one to walk away. Up there, it would be him.

Or maybe he wouldn’t walk away.

Maybe we’d end up in bed, which would be amazing. Until we realized that we had nothing else between us. And when that ended up being the case, it would still be devastating to part later. Maybe even more devastating. Prolonging the inevitable was only going to hurt worse later.

Unless it wasn’t inevitable.

Honestly, I didn’t have any idea what could happen. So I said, “Yes.”

We were quiet in the elevator, and that added to the tension—both sexual and otherwise. Being together in such a small, secluded space gathered the charge tighter around us, and suddenly I couldn’t stop looking at his lips. Couldn’t stop thinking about the warmth radiating off his body. Every floor we passed was one closer to my apartment. To my bed.

To my door, where I had to tell him the truth.

Then we were walking down my hallway, my heart pounding, my mouth dry. Each step, I told myself, would be the one where I’d say what I needed to say. Each step went by in silence. Finally, at my door, I turned to him, my mouth open and ready.

“JC,” I said, at the same time that he said, “Gwen.”

…And we were back to the tripping over each other.

“You go.” I held my breath, waiting for whatever he was going to say, knowing it was heavy by the way he carried himself, the slump of his shoulders, the frown in his eyes, his hands stuffed again inside his pockets.

God, I wanted those hands out and open and on me. Yearned for them to brush across my skin, to peel me from my clothes, to ease the throbbing in my head and heart and between my legs. They were weapons, I decided. If they touched me like I wanted them to, they’d burn. And if he left after that—their absence would destroy me.

Perhaps it was best he kept them tucked away.