He reaches his hand over and gently touches my cheek with his fingertips. “I’ve been listening to it a lot these last couple of weeks.”

Speechless and on the verge of tears, I look away from him and out the window.

Twenty Minutes Later—Tom’s House, LA

The drive to Tom’s house was quiet. I spent the whole drive trapped inside my head, wondering what he wants to talk to me about and also trying to figure out what I want to say to him.

He pulls up outside the gates to his house. Using a remote, he opens them.

Watching them part slowly, my heart goes into overtime.

By the time he’s pulled up outside his house, my heart is attempting a cage break through my ribs.

Without a word, Tom gets out of the car. I unbuckle my seat belt and open my door.

Tom’s here, and he takes my hand, helping me out. My body jolts at the feel of his big hand touching mine, electricity snaking through my body, desire pooling between my legs.

No matter what’s happening between Tom and me, my body will always want him.

As I climb down, I see his eyes skim my legs, a flare of desire igniting in them.

I feel a shot of relief. It’s good to know I still have that effect on him. I was beginning to worry that it had gone. He didn’t once look at me in a sexual way since seeing him tonight at the hospital.

His fingers thread through mine, clutching my hand.

I freeze, my heart warring with my head.

“Don’t pull away. I just need to hold you…even if it’s a small part of you.” His voice is thick with meaning.

His chest is pressed against my shoulder, reminding me how good it feels to have Tom’s body touching mine.

My head starts to spin.

Lifting my head, I stare up into his eyes and nod.

With his grip tight on my hand, he leads me into the house and straight to the living room.

It’s the first time I’m seeing it. It’s much like his bedroom—manly, dark wood, white walls, a comfy-looking black L-shaped sofa, a huge flat screen on the wall.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, leading me toward the sofa.

“No, thanks.”

Tom sits and tugs my hand, pulling me to sit down beside him.

We’re at the corner, so I shuffle over, letting go of his hand, I put a good bit of distance between us.

I can see from the look on his face that he’s not happy about the distance, but I need to talk to him with a clear head, and Tom touching any part of me leaves my mind fuzzy and my judgment clouded.

Determination in his eyes, Tom shifts over to me, leaving little room between us. Then, he turns his body toward mine, which presses his jean-covered knee up against my bare outer thigh.

The contact is like a live wire on my skin.

I sigh, and look at him. His eyes are dark, and telling me that if I move, there will be trouble.

I stay put.

He leans forward—forearms on his thighs, hands linked together—bringing him even closer to me. He exhales, and I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.

“Why am I here, Tom?”

His eyes study me silently for a moment. “I need you to know how sorry I am for the way I behaved. The things I said to you the last time we saw each other were unforgiveable. I’m so sorry.”

I clench my jaw. “Oh, you mean when I bared my soul to you, and you told me—and I quote—‘Take your declaration of love, and tell it to someone who wants it.’ Then, you rode away from me without a second thought.”

“There was a second thought.” His expression turns to granite. “I’ve regretted what I said every moment since.”

“So, why? Why hurt me like that if you didn’t mean it?” The pain from that day is still so raw inside me.

“I don’t know…fear.” He shrugs.

“Fear?” I’m confused and pissed off, and it’s telling in my tone.

Guilt sharpens his expression. “What I’m trying to say is…maybe deep down, I thought if I hurt you, then it would make walking away from you easy. If you hated me, then there would be no going back. I just didn’t factor in how much I would miss you. How empty things—I…would feel without you.” His smile is crooked, heartfelt…rueful.

“I don’t understand. If you wanted me, then why did you push me away?”

Maybe I’m just being dumb here, but I can’t understand his logic.

He drops his gaze. “Because I’m fucked up.”

“No, you’re not.” I shake my head. “You’re emotionally detached but not fucked up.”

His eyes come back to mine. “I’m fucked up, Ly. If you knew everything about me—things I’ve done, the way I’ve behaved—you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Even after the way you behaved toward me that day, Tom, it didn’t change how I view you. And it’s not about to change with whatever you need to tell me now.”

“I just hope to God you’re still saying that when I’m done telling you everything.” His hand rubs over his hair. He seems nervous, uncomfortable. “The things I have to tell you…my timing really sucks, but to make you understand…well, me…I have to tell you this.”

“So, tell me. I’m listening.” I stare at him, encouraging him with my eyes.

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “What happened with Dex today…I understand what you’re going through.”