Lost In Me (Here and Now) (10 page)

I’m nobody’s angel, love, but you were crying in your sleep.

I’m useless, empty, nothing, sugar. Wait around and then you’ll see.

You thought you’d find your answers, but now you’re lost in me.

The words tap into me, loosening something in my chest until I feel like anyone looking at me can see my confusion and the inexplicable aching of my heart.

And when he lifts his head and watches me as he sings the last verse of his song, I don’t move. I don’t hide from those eyes that know too much. I don’t run from that face that could destroy my whole world. I stand transfixed, the words rolling through my veins like they’re part of my blood.

After he strums the final chords, he puts down his guitar and leaves the stage without explanation or promise to return.

My feet are following him before I’ve decided what to do. He heads up the stairs and out back, through the French doors and onto the patio, where he keeps going until he hits the path in front of the river.

He’s trying to escape me. I should be happy, right? The past can stay in the past, and whatever mistake I made with this rocker can be left behind with it. But I can’t let him walk away without answers.

“Stop!” I rush down to the river, my heels sinking into the rain-softened earth. “Who are you?”

He turns slowly, the confusion back on his face. “Is that supposed to be funny? Pretending there was nothing between us wasn’t enough? You need to pretend you don’t even know who I am?”

“I—” Oh my God. The hurt in his eyes. “I
don’t
know who you are,” I say carefully. “But maybe I should? I was injured and I have amnesia, so I honestly don’t know you.” And if that doesn’t sound like a line from a Lifetime movie, I’m not sure what does.

“Amnesia? You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.” He starts toward me, and I hold out a hand to stop him. “I’d prefer you to stay over there. Please.”

He pulls back, watching me. “Amnesia,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know who I am.” It’s not a question—more a realization.

“I don’t know who you are or why you would crawl into my bed in the middle of the night. I don’t understand why—” My breath catches and fat, hot tears spill onto my cheeks. Suddenly this is just all too much. “I don’t understand,” I repeat, and leave it at that.

“You don’t remember anything? Do you know who you are?”

“Yeah. I remember everything up until about a year ago, but the last eleven months are just…gone.”

He drags a hand through his hair, and I’m struck again by how gorgeous he is. Dark messy hair, dark intense eyes. His T-shirt clings to his sculpted arms. Tattoos peek out from the sleeves. No matter how hard I look, I can’t remember being with him. So why do I have this feeling in my chest like my heart knows something I don’t?

“Do I know you?” I ask.

He lets out a huff and stares at the starlit sky. “Yeah. You do.” When he drops his gaze back to meet mine, his eyes are moist with unshed tears. “I’m the idiot who’s in love with you.”

In love with me? “But I’m engaged.”

“I saw that,” he whispers, his gaze flicking back to my hand. “Can I ask? Did that happen before or after the amnesia?”

“Before.”

“Fuck.” The word isn’t screamed or thrown like a stone. He breathes it—exhaling the sound like so much disappointment.

To me, Nate’s a stranger, but to him, I’m…
what?

We just stare at each other, him looking heartbroken and angry, me trying to piece it all together in my head and make some sense of this. I’m engaged to Max Hallowell. I’m not the kind of girl who would get engaged to one guy when she’s been sleeping with another.

Am I?

We stand here, the passing seconds measured by the chirp of a lonely tree frog. I scan my mind for anything. A memory, a piece of information, useless trivia—I search for anything at all I can take from my brain to make sense of this illogical ache in my heart.

Finally, he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks out over the water. “I’ve gotta get out of here, Han.”

Han.
He knows me. I can feel it. I know him. My heart does, if not my injured brain. “Please, tell me what happened. What did I do?” I whisper. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugs. “What’s there to understand? You’re wearing his ring.”

Then he walks away, and I’m alone and confused. And I think I have a broken heart, but I don’t know if it’s breaking for me or for him. And I don’t know who did the breaking.

W
HEN
I return to the party, I immediately spot Nate sitting in a chair beside Asher, his guitar in his big hands, his dark hair falling over one eye as he jots notes on a piece of paper. Something twists in my chest at the sight of him. I want to tell myself it’s regret or fear—anything but the longing I know it to be.

Maggie and Lizzy motion me over from the bar, but I shake my head and stay by the stairs. As if he senses me, Nate lifts his head and his eyes immediately lock with mine.

I might not understand the tangle of emotions in my chest, but there’s no mistaking the anger that flashes over his face when he sees me, and because I’m a coward, I can’t face it.

I run back upstairs.

“Where’s she going?” I hear Maggie ask.

“She wasn’t feeling great,” Lizzy says. “I’ll check on her.”

I’m in the hallway when I feel her behind me, her hand on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

Everything.
“Nothing. The doctor said the headaches and dizziness might give me a problem for a few days. A party probably wasn’t the best idea.”

Her expression is more worried than disappointed. “Let me take you home.”

“No. It’s a beautiful night, and I’d actually like the fresh air. And I think I’m going to swing by the club and see Max.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Promise you’ll call me if I can help?”

I take in a long, slow breath. “Go back down there and have a good time.”

“Oh, right.” Her eyes light up. “I have a rocker to seduce.”

My stomach lurches, but I force a smile. “Right.”

I watch her go back down before I turn back to the basket of cell phones by the stairs. After shuffling through it, I pull out the few phones I don’t recognize as belonging to me or one of my sisters.

I hit the buttons to bring them to life and swipe all three screens to unlock them. One screen, no doubt Asher’s, has a picture of Maggie and Zoe as the wallpaper, one has a young woman I don’t recognize, and the other has Storm Troopers.

There’s no question in my mind that the Storm Trooper phone belongs to the man with the Hulk tattoo and the Spider-Man shirt. The idea of this hard-ass rocker being a closet geek is so adorable. I soften toward him without wanting to.

Before I can think it through, I’m swiping my fingers across the screen and pulling up Nate’s text messages. It doesn’t take long for me to find a thread with my name.

The last one I sent was the day of my accident.

Hanna:
Left you a message. We need to talk when you get into town.

What did I want to talk to him about? Was I going to tell him I was marrying Max? I scroll back through some harmless if flirty
Good morning
and
Good to hear your voice tonight
texts before I land on a conversation so damning it makes my hands shake.

The hallway is empty, but I can’t risk anyone else seeing these. I take the phone out onto the back patio, sink into a chair, and scroll back to the beginning of the incriminating conversation. I don’t take a single breath while I read it.

Nate:
Did you remember to take your gift home with you?

Hanna:
I did. God knows what airport security thought of it when they searched my bag.

Nate:
I’m sure they’ve seen worse. Glad you have it with you.

Hanna:
It’s a sorry substitute for you.

Nate:
I’ll make it up to you when I get to Indiana. I’m coming straight to your place and keeping you in bed for days.

Hanna:
Hmm. That sounds kind of boring.

Nate:
Get naked, woman. I want to tell you how to use my gift.

Hanna:
Bossy.

Nate:
Only because it makes you wet.

Hanna:
Naked.

Nate:
In bed?

Hanna:
I’ve been in bed since you first texted. I have a 6 a.m. running date tomorrow.

Nate:
You should cancel it. I don’t want you running off those curves.

Hanna:
You’re the only one who likes my so-called “curves.”

Nate:
Who else matters?

Hanna:
Good point. I miss your face.

Nate:
I miss yours too. You know what else I miss?

Hanna:
Tell me.

Nate:
The sound you make when I touch your breasts. The feel of your nipples against my tongue. I miss sliding my hand between your legs and finding you wet. I miss the taste of you. The feel of your heels against my back as I take your clit between my lips. But mostly, I miss holding you in my arms. So fucking perfect. So completely mine.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe it was supposed to be like in the movies, where the amnesia patient sees something from her past and suddenly everything comes flooding back to her. But there’s no memory here, and my half of this conversation might as well have been written by another woman.

When I lift my head, Nate is standing in front of me, hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes bored.

“See anything good?” he asks.

My heart is pounding and my breath is shallow and shaky. My cheeks burn and it has nothing to do with regret or guilt or embarrassment. The things he wrote. The things he said. There’s a heavy tightness between my legs. My mind may still be confused, but my body? My body wants Nate as much as it ever wanted Max.

Oh God, Max.
I cheated on Max.
“Why would I risk everything?”

His jaw hardens and he shrugs. “You’d have to ask your fiancé.”

“You
know
why I can’t do that.” I push my chair back, and the scraping of metal against concrete rends the air. I lift my chin. “I want to understand. I need you to talk to me.”

He tenses at my demand. “No, I don’t.”

“You don’t understand what this is like. Not remembering? I’m planning a wedding to this man I’ve wanted most of my life. Don’t I owe it to him—don’t I owe it to
myself
—to have the truth out there before we promise until death do us part?”

Even in the moonlight, I can see the pain in his eyes.

“I just need answers.” I lift my chin and move toward the back wall of the house, toward him. Immediately, I regret the decision because his lips curve into a wicked smile and he closes what distance is left between us. “I need the truth,” I whisper weakly.

“The truth? Is that what you really want, angel?” His deep voice dances over my skin like a caress. A little tender. A lot wicked.

I can’t reply. I’m too busy holding my breath. Too deep of an inhale might brush my breasts against his chest, and I’m afraid to touch him. Afraid of what it might make me feel.

As if he can read my mind, he takes another step closer, and when I step to the side to turn away, I’m against the wall and his body is against mine, his hot breath at my ear.

“Do you want to know what it was like between us?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

I realize my mistake when a groan rumbles from his chest. “Should I start with how wet you were every time I touched you? Or maybe how you begged me that first night?”