It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,100
question she had regarding Montford University.
“We’re here,” Mark said.
Addy glanced around. They were parked on the side of a road, a little ways out of town. There were some small homes around—all set on tiny lots at different angles. They were old. Mark hadn’t parked in front of any of them.
He’d parked in front of an overgrown vacant lot.
Did he plan to buy the lot? To build a home on it? Was that why she was there? “Let’s get out,” he said, opening his door with a sideways glance in her direction. Because it seemed to matter to him, she opened her door. Climbed down from the truck. Walked a couple of feet out into the lot to stand beside him.
Nonnie had sold their home for a fairly large amount. Probably because of land. It had been in the family for long enough to be paid off. Even after the scholarship, they’d have money to invest. Maybe Mark had already bought the place.
She hoped not. It was barren. He could do so much better and in a less run-down neighborhood.
He was watching her.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He looked around, surveying the land, and looked back at her. She had no idea what to say.
“What do you think of it?” he asked. It was like when someone showed up in a hideous dress and asked how they looked and you had to find something kind to say.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mark. I know I shouldn’t say that, but I can’t lie to you. I hope I never have to tell another lie in my life. It makes me sick. And I don’t like this place. You and Nonnie shouldn’t have to live here.”
She wasn’t being a snob. It wasn’t about money. The neighborhood was filled with trash. Dirty. There was no attempt to make things nice. Nodding, his hands in his pockets, he kept staring at her.
“What?” she asked again, getting more tense by the second. He seemed to need something from her. She had no idea what it was.
“Nonnie says that you don’t believe in love.”
“Of course I do.” She loved him. “I know it exists. I’m the one who told you that.”
He shook his head. “You know it exists—you just don’t believe that you’ll ever find it. That it will last. You don’t trust it.”
Did he blame her? Her own father had murdered the woman he adored. She stared up at him openmouthed.
“I don’t, do I?” she said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just what Nonnie says.”
“She’s wrong.”
“Okay.”
But maybe she wasn’t. She knew she loved Mark. He was there now. Being kind to her.
Which would indicate that she still had a chance with him. “Why are we here?”
“You don’t recognize it, do you?”
Shaking her head, she looked around. “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve never been here before. I—”
Mark’s gaze was so intense it scared her. “Yes, you have.”
How would he know?
She looked around. And then it hit her.
“No.” Vigorously shaking her head, Addy backed up. One step. Then two. “No. Uh-uh. No.” Stumbling, she backed into the street. Taking more backward steps. Away. She had to get away.
And she backed into something that didn’t move. A rock-solid wall. Mark’s arms came around her. “I have to go, Mark.” She was leaning forward now, pulling away from him.
“Addy.” His voice was firm, but gentle, too. Warm and soft. Like he’d said her name the night they’d slept together.
That night had been good.
So good.
Better than any night she could remember.
And then there was the other night she’d never forget.
“I want to relive the fire with you, Addy. So you can accept it for what it was and come out the other side. I’ll sit with you in burning hell if that’s as far as we get. I’ll stay there with you if you can’t get out. But you have to know this, Addy. He didn’t do it.”
What was he talking about? She had to go.
“Water,” she choked.
A plastic bottle appeared in her vision. She stared at it. Mark loosened her grip on his arm, the arm that was holding her, and fastened her fingers, one at a time, around the cold, moist bottle of water.
With the bottle in her grasp, he unscrewed the lid, all the while holding her close with his other arm.
Shaking, she watched as the clear, cool, liquid splashed out on her hand.
“Your father didn’t set the fire.”
She was so thirsty.
“Greg Richards agrees, as does the fire marshal.” Mark kept talking. She heard him.