despise it to my core. But she needs time to heal and to see that this can be her life, here with me. No drunk assholes leering at her, no coworkers getting aggressively handsy, no late nights that wear her out to the point of exhaustion and put her at dangerous risk of God knows what. No, she can’t go back there. I just need to show her how good it can be and she’ll understand. She’s got to.
Madison curls back into my side, her fingers tracing along my tattoo under her cheek. And God help me, I’m at peace with lying because I’ll do anything to keep her by my side and protect her. Even if it’s from herself.
Chapter 25
Madison
Daily Horoscope, November 2nd
Libra - Still waters run deep . . . but a gentle disturbance to the surface can change the underlying sand foundation.
“Dude, give me that!” I say, reaching for the last nacho in the paper tray. But Scott doesn’t give me the tray. Instead, he grabs the last remaining bastion of cheesy-beefy goodness, but he doesn’t crunch into it for himself. No, he holds it up for me to eat it . . . from his fingers. I smile and grab his hand, holding it in place as I nibble the nacho and then lick the cheese from his fingers. His eyes zero on the display I’m putting on for him, watching as my tongue curls around his thumb and I suck it in to get every last bit of cheesy goodness and rile Scott up at the same time. Winning, indeed.
The last few days have been amazing. Surprisingly so, considering what happened at work a few nights ago. I still can’t believe Carl was that drunk or that Scott had to rescue me . . . again. But he did and took it remarkably well. The next morning, I’d still been a bit of a mess and had completely forgotten my surprise birthday breakfast plans for him. But by late afternoon, we’d snuggled and talked about everything and nothing as I felt more like myself.
Granted, Scott hadn’t been happy that I was willing to let bygones be bygones with Carl, semi-justifying his actions with the excuse of alcohol, but I know a sober Carl would be horrified that he’d scared me.
I’d felt like the bigger story was Scott making some inroads with his siblings. When he’d said that it was all because of me, I’d beamed even as I’d assured him that it was all his doing.
And just like that, the tone for my weekend off had been set. We’ve laughed and played, explored and experimented, and generally taken our mantra of ‘new experiences’ to heart.
Art museum exhibit about surrealism? Check, although neither of us knew what surrealism even was.
Picnic in the park while a band played folksy covers of rock hits? Check.
An amusement park with an inflatable obstacle course where Scott had beat my best time by four minutes? Check.
A romantic sunset sail around the lake’s bay on a sailboat I’d thought was huge but the captain had assured me was a small personal watercraft? Check.
Restaurants? From fine dining to food trucks to a greasy spoon diner. Check, check, and check. Although the food truck Asian-fusion burrito was by far my favorite.
Shopping? Oh, yeah, that too. We’d left Stella’s in such a hurry that I hadn’t grabbed my overnight bag, and Scott had been adamant that we weren’t going back there, nor was I going home because this weekend was ours and ours alone. So he’d bought me a few T-shirts and two pairs of jeans, at American Eagle, not the Armani place he’d wanted to take me to. He’d laughed when I told him that if I had on Armani jeans, I’d never be able to sit down for fear of getting them dirty. Then I’d laughed when he’d hopped up and stuck his ass in my face, letting me read the label on his own designer jeans . . . that he’d literally been sitting in the grass with.
So yeah, the last three days have been jam-packed with awesomeness. Through it all, Scott’s been totally focused on me, and I’ve given him all of my attention. We left our phones at home, just enjoying life and taking it as it comes.
It feels good . . . freeing to just be with Scott, appreciating things both small and large about our experiences. About each other. Usually, my weekends off from work are spent hustling