Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,69

Zero. Although it was by far his favorite option.

Icy fingers of dread curled around his stomach. Suddenly he was the little kid waiting for his mom to come back, the older kid hoping that the next foster home would be his real home. The homeless teenager sick and shivering under the pier, quietly wishing for death. And yet... he instinctively knew this was his last chance. His chance to ask for his wildest dreams, and if necessary, wait for it. If he wasn't brave enough to put it all on the line now, he didn't deserve happiness. Trace sucked in a deep breath and pushed it out. If there was one thing he wasn't afraid of in life, it was bad odds. He breathed again, fighting the sick feeling in his stomach, then hopped out of the car and slowly approached the porch steps, boots feeling like they were soled in lead.

He paused, fist up, ready to knock. Was she asleep? Should he wake her? He shook his head, then pulled open the screen door. If she was asleep, he'd leave her be and wait for her at the kitchen table with a peace offering of coffee. Once inside, he toed off his boots and quietly made his way to the kitchen. Wine bottles and empty snack bags littered the counter, remnants of last night's girls' night, he guessed, and set about cleaning up. When the kitchen was pristine, he started the coffee and began to pace. Exhaustion ate at him. If he sat down, he'd sack out, and that wouldn't help his case at all. He was well into a second pot of coffee when he heard the stairs creaking. Trace pulled Cecilia's favorite mug out of the cupboard and had it waiting when she appeared in the doorway, eyes puffy and red, deep lines of sadness etched around her eyes and mouth, clutching a manila folder.

This was his fault. The raw devastation on her face was all because of him, and seeing her this way was like a knife to the gut. And still, his heart jumped at the sight of her. To him, she was every bit as lovely as the morning he'd first met her. Trace watched her closely as she hovered in the doorway. Her eyes raked over him, hungry and sad. "Coffee?" He held out the mug prepared just the way she liked it. She tossed the folder on the table where it landed with an ominous smack, then accepted the coffee. "Have a seat?" he offered. She shook her head, taking a slow sip, then shut her eyes, inhaling. The realization hit him like a rogue wave. She was as unsure as he was. He could work with that. "I'm sure you have questions..." his voice trailed off at her death-glare. He swallowed. Shit. He knew it wasn't going to be a walk in the park, but this upped his odds of option A to seventy-five percent, easily. So she didn't want to talk. He'd wait then. The ball was in her court.

The silence between them remained heavy and fraught, all the way through her first cup of coffee. He finished his own mug, and grabbed the pot, offering to refill hers first. Blessedly, she accepted. He'd take any small win right now. This was a battle of inches. She opened the refrigerator, and pulling out the cream, began to talk. "So what I can't figure out, is why you of all people, pushed my story."

How did she figure that out? "Because I-"

She held up a finger. "How did I figure that out? Because your breadcrumb trail is about as obvious as throwing out slices of bread."

"I don't follow?"

"When Marissa, the editor of the Atlantic Journal who tracked me down to the diner, first made me the offer, I naturally assumed that my previous boss, Bob, who killed the story, was having a crisis of conscience and had passed the story along. But Marissa didn't have any of the accompanying photos, and Izzie and Jeanine didn't know the specifics of the story, or where I stash my material." Her voice turned rough. "Because no one except my boss reads my stories before they're publicized. So that left you. You'd seen it, at least the first page. And hell, maybe you've read the whole thing-"

"I didn't," he admitted. He could at least assure her of that. Cecilia's eyes widened briefly. So that surprised her? "Give me a little credit, Ceece. I wanted to help,