Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (21 page)

My veins are thrumming with adrenaline — thanks in part to the gun, but mostly to the man who handed it to me. I thought target practice would be easier to withstand than sparring, since I wouldn’t have to touch Nate as much.

I was wrong.

“Adjust your grip. No, not like that.” His arms wrap around me from behind, bringing his entire front up against my back. His head ducks so his chin rests almost on my shoulder. His hands close over mine, moving my fingers so they fit around the Beretta right. I can feel every muscular contour of his chest.

Crap on pumpernickel with peanut butter.

“That’s it,” he whispers when my hands are positioned correctly, the heat of his body radiating through the back of my sleep shirt. “Just like that.”

I hold myself perfectly still, so I don’t do something stupid. Like squirm against him. Or press back, to see if he’s as affected by our proximity as I am.

One tiny shift of my stance and I could feel his…

Danger!

“I’m not sure about this,” I say, wishing my voice wasn’t so goddamned breathy, even if the words are true.

I’m not sure about
any
of this.

About his gun in my hands.

About his arms around me.

About the way my heart is racing inside my chest.

His mouth brushes my neck and I shiver.

“We should’ve done this a long time ago,” he says, voice husky.

“Wha… We… Wha…
What
?!” I gasp out finally.

My brain has officially stopped working.

“Shooting lessons,” he clarifies.

Right. Shooting lessons. What did you think he was talking about, lunatic?

I swear, he’s laughing under his breath as he drops his arms and steps away from me. Pushing a button on the side of the booth, he activates an overhead pulley to bring the hanging paper target closer, until it’s less than ten feet away.

I glance at him, somewhat offended. “Really? I can almost
lick
the bullseye from here.”

He smirks and pushes a button to move it farther out, until it’s about fifteen feet away. “Better?”

“Slightly less insulting, yes.”

He moves in close again, eyes on mine. “Focus on the target.”

I turn my head back, pulse pounding.

“Take aim.”

I narrow my eyes down the sight of the gun, focusing on the tiny red circle at the center of the paper.

“Don’t forget to breathe, West.” He chuckles. “If you pass out from lack of oxygen before you get off a single shot, the bad guys win. Got it?”

I force a breath into my lungs. “Got it,” I mutter.

“Don’t forget—”

“You don’t have to lecture me!” I cut him off. “How hard can it be to hit the damn thing?”

He’s silent, but I can almost
feel
waves of amusement rolling off him into the air around us.

Whatever. I’ve
so
got this.

I steady my arms in preparation for the recoil, cock my head a tiny bit to the left, and pull the trigger, wincing in anticipation of the loud bang.

Except… it never comes.

No bang. No bullet. No recoil.

Fine. I so
don’t
got this.

“What the…?”

Nate leans in until I feel his breath on my earlobe. “As I was saying before,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget the safety.”

I shoot a glare in his direction, nearly bumping noses with him in the process. Damn, he’s close. My heartbeat picks up speed again when I see his eyes are on my mouth.

“I knew that,” I snap, hoping my bitchy tone will cover the fact that I’m about two seconds from mashing my lips against his.

Down, girl. 

“Uh huh,” he says, leaning back to give me room. Then, he grins. A real, genuine
grin
, with teeth and everything. The sight makes about three trillion butterflies burst into flight in my gut.

“I… uh…” I swallow hard, trying to convince myself to look away before I start to drool. “I…”

The grin widens. “You gonna shoot me or the target, West?”

I pivot swiftly so he won’t see the blush creeping across my cheeks. Adjusting my stance once more, I lift the gun back to eye level, lock my arms, and adjust my grip.

This time… this time I’ve
totally
got this. I’ll show him.

Him and his stupid, sexy, grinning mouth. And biceps. And dear god, those leg muscles…

Focus!

I swallow, move my thumb along the barrel of the gun like Nate showed me earlier, and grin victoriously when I find the small raised lever.

“Ha! Found it.”

“West, you—”

“Shh! I’m concentrating. You don’t need to baby me, Nate.”

An amused sound rattles in his throat. “Whatever you say.”

I ignore him, mouth twisted in a smug smile as I press the button to release the safety.

…Which makes it really freaking embarrassing when the magazine drops out the bottom of the gun and clatters to the cement floor.

Perfect. Just
perfect
.

I didn’t hit the safety at all. I hit the clip-release button.

“Frack!” I yell, stomping one bare foot against the cement. I yank the shooting glasses from my eyes and toss them onto the booth.

There’s a choked sound from my side. I turn in slow motion, eyes narrowed, and find Nate watching me with a strange, strangled look on his face.

“Okay… so maybe I need a little more practice,” I admit warily.

At that, he loses it completely.

I’ll never look at a damn chocolate

chip cookie the same way again.

Nathaniel Knox, whose sweet tooth is more

inclined toward brunettes than brownies.

Laughter bursts from Nate’s mouth — loud, roaring laughter. The kind that makes you bend at the waist and clutch your knees and gasp for air. The kind that makes your eyes tear and your stomach hurt.

I want to laugh too — because even
I
can admit my abysmal show of marksmanship is pretty funny — but I can’t take my eyes off him. Not yet. Because watching Nate laugh has to be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my twenty-three years and three hundred sixty-three days of life on this planet.

“Stop laughing at me!” I protest, setting the useless gun on the booth. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

That threat just makes him laugh harder.

“I hate you,” I inform him sweetly.

“No you don’t,” he gasps, straightening to full height again. 

“I do,” I say, stepping closer. “I really, really,
really
hate— Eeek!”

My words are cut off when his hands shoot out from his sides and pull me into his chest. I watch as the laughter dies out of his eyes, replaced by something else. Something that looks a lot like lust.

“What did you just say to me?” he asks, voice intense.

I feel breathless, pressed against him so tightly. All the air has been forced from my lungs, like I’ve just run the Boston Marathon and his arms are the finish line.

I stare into those dark eyes and try not to sway closer. “I said I hate—”

The words are swallowed up as his mouth lands on mine. His kiss is hard, uncompromising, stealing my breath and sending my mind into a tailspin. His hands find the small of my back, pulling me closer as his lips overtake mine. It’s all-consuming. The kind of kiss you can’t even return properly — you just hang on for dear life and hope you’re still breathing when it’s over.

When he’s finished, my arms are looped limply around his neck, I’m panting like Boo when he takes on the stairs, and I’m pretty sure if Nate lets go of me I’ll slide to the floor in a heap of limbs, because my legs are made of Jell-O.

“I grew up with that —
I hate you
.” His forehead rests against mine; his eyes are closed tightly. “My parents would shout it at each other, in the years before they became so indifferent to their marriage they couldn’t be bothered to work up any feelings at all. Even hate. They didn’t always use the words, necessarily, but it was there in their eyes. In the way they snapped and snarled.” He exhales sharply. “I’ve never met two people more toxic for each other.”

“Nate,” I whisper, not knowing what to say.

His eyes flicker open. “Don’t say you hate me. Even if you’re joking. Even if you don’t mean it.” His forehead presses tighter against mine. “Don’t ever say that to me, West. Because the day you hate me is the day I know I’ve finally fucked things up for good.”

I look at him, feeling confused and hopeful and maybe even scared by his words. My hand lifts to trace the stubble shadowing his jawline. He sucks in a breath of air as soon as my fingertips make contact.

“I don’t hate you,” I whisper, staring at his mouth. “I don’t think I could ever hate you. Trust me, I’ve tried.” 

His eyes crinkle. “You’ve tried?”

“Plenty of times.”

“When?”

I tighten my arms around his neck and crane back to look up into his eyes. “Hmmm, let’s see…” I tilt my head. “Definitely that time in second grade when you and Parker cut all the hair off my favorite Barbie dolls.”

His lips twitch.

“And the time you put bean sprouts in my dinner and told me they were worms.”

He snorts.

“And!” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “When you turned me down for the Sadie Hawkins dance in eighth grade.”

His eyes are glimmering with humor. “That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“No.” My voice gets smaller but I force myself to hold his gaze. “The time you pretended I didn’t exist for ten years.” I swallow. “I hated you then.”

He goes still, watching me carefully for a long, suspended moment. “You always existed for me, little bird.”

The endearment is a shock to my system. He hasn’t called me that for years, not since we were kids. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it slips from his mouth.

I try to duck my head so he won’t see the emotion swirling in my eyes, but his hand finds my chin and he tilts my head up, refusing to let me escape.

“Every damn day,” he whispers, eyes locked on mine. “Since you were no more than five years old, that day I climbed over the fence from my yard into yours and saw you sitting on the grass, perfectly still, crying your eyes out over those damn turtle doves… Every second of every day since that moment, you’ve existed for me.”

“Then why…” I trail off.

His fingers stroke the tender spot where my jawline and ear connect. “Why what?”

“You wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t even look at me. And then you disappeared.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry. “I needed you, and you disappeared.”

His eyes get soft and a heartbreaking look drifts across his face — full of longing and regret and sadness. “I had to leave. The things my father wanted for me — a Harvard law degree, a cushy job in the DA’s office. … I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t become him. That life I watched him live, full of hatred and greed and self-obsession — it was never what I wanted for myself.” He pauses. “The only thing I ever really wanted was off limits.”

My breath catches in my throat. “And what was that?”

Me. Me. Me.
I repeat it over and over, like a prayer to the heavens.
Please, say it was me.

He doesn’t answer right away. After a minute, I realize he’s not going to at all.

His thumb moves to stroke the fragile place beneath my eye, where bruises stain the skin black and blue. “I wish I could erase this,” he says softly.

“Why?” I ask, only slightly offended. “Is it grossing you out?”

He stills in surprise, then lifts his eyes to mine. “No, it’s not
grossing me out
.” He pauses and I know he’s weighing his words, deciding how much of himself he wants to reveal. When he finally speaks, his words are halting. “You’re beautiful. Always. In a ratty t-shirt with messy hair or in those goddamn six inch stiletto heels with a gorgeous dress.”

Beautiful
.

Nate thinks I’m beautiful.

His mouth touches the tip of my nose in a fleeting kiss so tender, it makes me want to cry. When his lips move to the aching spot above my eyebrow, then over to my bruised temple, depositing tiny kisses in their wake, I have to fight the tears building behind my eyes. 

“I want to erase it because it’s a reminder of the man who hurt you. I don’t want his mark on your skin. Every time I see it, I’m reminded that I failed to keep you safe. Failed to protect you when you needed me most.” His jaw clenches. “And every time you look in the mirror, you’re reminded of the worst day of your life.”

The tears I was fighting win the battle — they gloss over my eyes as I lay my hands on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm.

“You didn’t fail me,” I whisper to his mouth, because I can’t look into his eyes — if I do, my tears will spill over.

“I did. If you’d trusted me when I told you he was dangerous, you wouldn’t have gone with him that night.”

“Exactly.” I shake my head. “That’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

“No.” His voice is firm. “That’s on me, West. I didn’t give you a reason to trust me. I fucked up. And you got hurt because of it.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Nate.” I press my fingertips harder into his chest. “I was angry at you. Angry and stubborn and too proud to admit you might be right. That’s not on you. That’s on me.” My voice gets smaller — I’m ashamed of the next part. “And, if I’m honest, there was a part of me that enjoyed thinking you might be jealous. That it might hurt you, seeing me with him.”

There’s a loaded silence when my words trail off. I’m suddenly terrified to look at him, which is unfortunate because his thumbs find the soft spot beneath my chin, and then he’s tilting my face up to look into his. As soon as our eyes meet and he sees the tears gathering there, a look flashes over his face. It’s possessive, almost predatory.

“I hope those tears aren’t for me, little bird.”

“What tears?” I ask shakily, as they track down my face. “I don’t see any tears. You should get your vision checked.”

Denial is always the answer. 

A soft smile tugs at his mouth. It’s new and old at the same time — a revolutionary look for
this
Nate, the hardened man with too many memories in his eyes, but not for the Nate of my youth. I remember that same gentle smile on the lips of a ten-year-old boy when I’d trail after him and Parker on one of their adventures; that same look on his face when I’d ask for help with math homework at the kitchen table and he’d grudgingly show me how to do fractions. (For the third time.)

“Must be my imagination,” he murmurs, wiping away an escaped tear with the pad of his thumb.

“Definitely,” I agree, still weeping steadily.

His arms slide around my back, my hands slip up over his shoulders, and for a few minutes, I let my tears drip into the fabric of his t-shirt. He doesn’t say anything — he just holds me.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I hiccup after a while, voice muffled against his body. I pull back and see I’ve made a mess of his shirt — dark wet splotches cover the entire shoulder section. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Don’t apologize.” He ducks to catch my eyes. “It’s just a shirt. It’ll dry.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You went through a trauma. This is normal.” He runs a hand through my hair, petting me like a scared child. “You acting like everything’s fine and baking cookies and wanting to go back to your place right away — that’s
not
normal.”

“But you shouldn’t have to deal with me being a mess. You’ve got enough to—”

“West.” His voice is stern. “I can handle it.”

I glance up at him from beneath my eyelashes, still wet with traces of my tears. “You were wrong, before.”

His eyebrows go up. “About?”

“It wasn’t the worst day of my life, when Cormack took me.”

Dark eyes scan my face, a question in their depths.

“The day my mother died,” I clarify. “That was the worst day.”

His expression softens.

I clear my throat. “I’m the one who found her, you know.”

“I know.”

“I remember every detail of that day. Every single one. They’re etched into my head and I’ll never get them out.”

“Little bird…”

I almost fall apart, when he says that. But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop the words from flowing. I stare at his Adam’s apple and let the words pour from my lips, not thinking about the consequences. Just knowing I have to tell him, tell
someone
, because if I hold it in another moment I’m going to explode.

“If I close my eyes and think back, I can still smell the ocean that day. Seaweed and salt and that indescribable scent of summer. I can hear sound of shorebirds calling out overhead. Feel the whip of the wind against my face as I ran down the beach toward her. And the colors — the colors I remember most of all. The sand was so white, the sky so gray, the waves so green. And her skin. So blue. Like ice.” I swallow hard when my voice breaks. Nate’s arms tighten around my back but he doesn’t interrupt me. “I knew she was dead before I reached her. Even at seven, I knew what death looked like. I knew she was gone.”

I look up at him to see concern and sadness twisting his features.

“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.” His words are intent. “You were a little girl. A baby.”

“I know,” I whisper, wishing I believed it. “But… seeing her like that… it did something to me. Most people spend their lives waiting for The Worst Day to happen. But when it happens to you while you’re still a kid… every other bad thing that happens to you for the rest of your life seems a bit anticlimactic. I mean…
Failing grade on a test? Humiliating pool party? Date throws up in your purse?
Still not as bad as finding your mother’s dead body.” I take a deep breath. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t really processed the whole mobsters-kidnapping-me thing. Because, as scary as it was…” I stare into his eyes.

“It still wasn’t The Worst Day,” he finishes for me.

I nod. “You know, I’ve always thought I’ll die young, like she did. That my timer is going to run out sooner than later. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t more freaked out when Cormack grabbed me. Because, in a way, I’ve kind of been expecting it for years now.”

His hands tighten suddenly around me, and his voice gets intense. “Don’t say shit like that. Get it out of your head. You’re not going anywhere. You’re not fucking dying on me.” He shakes me gently, as if he might force some sense into me. “I won’t let you.”