Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,49

my right hand!

I roll to my back and stare at the exposed beams in the vaulted ceiling. If I go after him and press him to talk, he’ll recoil with hateful, chest-thumping blather. Or he’ll turn into a statue and give me useless one-word answers—which is worse.

Wrapping the blankets around me, I try to sink back into sleep, but my brain won’t shut off.

Why does he care about a piece of jewelry on my right hand?

Because that ring symbolizes everything. The life I loved. The man I lost. The happiness I’ll never get back.

If my engagement to Cole is such a point of contention for Trace, why doesn’t he ask about it? Why doesn’t he ask how Cole died or why I still wear the ring?

The missing answers leave me wide awake. Confused. Flipping and flopping. Anxious. Huffing and puffing.

Screw it. I throw off the covers and find Trace in the sitting room. Perched on one end of the couch, he’s bent forward with elbows on spread knees, sipping an amber drink from a crystal tumbler. A bottle sits on the trunk in front of him. Scotch.

I stop within arm’s reach and put my hands on my hips. Then I lower them, because it feels confrontational.

With his head tilted down, he lifts only his eyes and suspends me there, in the full force of his gaze.

He says nothing. I say nothing. We’re rocking the communication.

I release a sigh and lower to sit on the trunk, facing him.

“What goes through your mind when you see this?” I hold out my right hand, and the silver band glints in the lamp light.

He takes a sip of the scotch, swallows. “Your fiancé could’ve splurged a little and at least bought you a diamond.”

My cheeks inflame, and the sharp rise of anger burns the backs of my eyes. “Diamonds are synonymous with greed and slavery and murder. No one had to die for my ring.” I drag in a serrated breath. “Cole gave me exactly what I wanted.”

“Except a marriage.”

I flinch, and my fingers ball into fists. “Why would you say something so cold and heartless?”

“It’s the truth.”

“A truth I live with every second of every day,” I whisper, on the verge of tears. “The reminder is merciless and unnecessary.”

I don’t need this. The more time I spend with him, the more I feel like a mat he uses to scrape the shit off his shoes. I stand on unsteady legs and stride toward the hall to change my clothes. This is me, being strong and mighty. Roar.

Until his voice drifts across the room.

“You’re the kind of woman a man marries.”

My feet stick to the floor, my heart thundering for more. More to that declaration. It sounds like a compliment, but coming from him, it could be anything.

I need to let it go, get dressed, and get the hell out of Dodge. But I know what will happen. I’ll stew on his statement, wondering if he meant this or that or… Fuck! I want answers.

He hasn’t moved, his chest still angled over his knees, his hand curled around his scotch.

“Explain what you mean.” I retrace my steps, pausing a few feet away from the man responsible for my flighty state of mind. “Why am I the kind of woman a man marries?”

“You’re empathetic.” He meets my eyes. “The donation at the shelter. The arthritis prescription for who the hell knows? Your abhorrence of the diamond industry. Most women don’t even think about the blood shed for diamonds. They just want the ring—the one with the biggest price tag.” He swallows the last gulp of scotch and stares into the empty glass. “That kind of empathy translates into compassion, support, and encouragement toward your partner.”

My heart thuds, and my brain short-circuits. I’m not a religious person, but I feel the strong need to pray about this to whomever is listening.

“You’re intellectually challenging,” he says. “Straight-forward, honest, and genuine—all of which trumps shallow beauty. A physical relationship is…nice.” His lips form a sinful smirk and settle back into a frown. “But when a man meets a woman he can hold meaningful conversation with, he won’t tire of her. Ever.”

My mouth gapes, and I snap it shut. How do I process this? What the hell do I say? Thank you? Fuck you? My God, I’ve never met a more complicated, confusing man.

“To top it off, you’re…aesthetically pleasing.” His eyes roam over me, making me shiver. Then he grabs the bottle of scotch and refills his tumbler. “You