by Elise Faber
That was the bullshit talking.
Soph was a hell of an actress, but she certainly wasn’t malicious and what she’d shared, the care and loveliness that she’d given him . . . no, he couldn’t believe that was all fake.
He couldn’t.
Which meant he needed to find a way to her.
Which meant . . . he needed Finn.
Luckily enough, he knew where the man lived.
Knocking on his door, Rob paced back and forth, waiting for Finn to answer it. Then knocking again when he didn’t. The lights were on inside, and he could smell the beginnings of dinner. They were home, and he needed to talk to his friend, and he’d keep pounding on the door until, finally, after long moments and a third knock, Finn did come to the door, his T-shirt on inside out, his hair a fucking disaster, and his jeans not completely buttoned.
“What?” he growled, making it clear why it had taken the course of three knocks.
Rob didn’t care what he’d interrupted.
He needed to get to Soph.
Not wasting any time, Rob explained the situation ending with a plea, plain and simple. “I need your help.”
Finn’s face had grown more serious throughout Rob’s entire speech. “Are you sure she wants you?”
As far as blows went, that was a heavy one.
“No,” he said, “I don’t know that, at least not a hundred percent. I hope she does. What we shared . . .” Fuck. “What we shared was . . . more, Finn. It was . . . not a fantasy or a fling. It was important and big and fuck, it was a glimpse of my future.” Spinning, he thrust a hand through his hair. “And she’s not running now because she’s doesn’t want me or us. She’s running because she’s terrified of wanting us, of wanting more, of what that more might mean.”
He broke off, heart beating rapidly, breaths sawing through him.
And Finn was silent, just staring at him.
For endless minutes.
Then finally, Finn nodded. “Go home and pack a bag then get your ass to the airport.”
Relief poured through him, and he turned for his truck.
“Hey, Rob?”
He stopped, glanced back.
“Do you have a passport?”
Brows drawing together, he asked, “Yeah, why?”
“Because you’re going to Italy.”
Twenty-Eight
The Sweater
Soph
Exhaustion made her limbs heavy as the elevator doors dinged open and she stumbled her way down the hall to her room.
The air was cool this late autumn evening, and she could think of nothing more than a long, hot bath, washing her face free of the on-camera makeup she wore, cuddling up in Rob’s sweater, and basking in her misery.
It had been more than a week without talking to him, and she felt as though she’d lost a limb.
She was starting to think that she’d made a mistake.
No, she’d known she’d made a mistake.
But did she have the courage to right it? Her stomach twisted itself into knots, just considering it.
The only positive was that her character was as morose as they came, and for once, she didn’t have to actually act. Instead, she was just her miserable self, parroting her lines to the camera.
And somehow, this wreck of a Hansel and Gretel remake might actually not turn out half-bad.
Snorting over the very unlikeliness of that statement, she let herself into her room. Immediately, her eyes went to the bed, neatly made, the purple sweater spread out on the comforter near its foot, and all at once, it became too much.
She was such an idiot.
She should have just told Rob what she had heard, how it had made her feel, how in that moment, she had known that he was too good for her, that she was unworthy of love in the same vein as his late wife.
He might have convinced her differently.
He might have made her feel worthy.
He might—
Her blood froze in her veins.
Her eyes slid closed as she sank to the carpet, just inside the room, her back resting against the door, her head on her knees.
Because why did she continue to look for worth in other people?
“Why?” she whispered. Why could she not find that worth in herself?
God, was this really going to be how she lived the rest of her life? Miserable and alone and constantly feeling as though she were not enough.
For once, she wanted to look into herself and . . . be happy with what she saw.
But how did one go about doing that?
How did some people just live their lives with confidence and not find themselves lacking or weighed down by their past?
Every time she thought she was beyond what had been done to her, how it had made her feel, every time she thought she’d shrugged off the burden of that heavy weight, Soph remembered how she’d felt afterward.
Dirty and used and washed up.
Broken and lost and trampled upon.
Sighing, she moved to the bathroom, washing her face, removing the false lashes, and then finally just staring at herself in the mirror.
“How have you gotten here?” she whispered, touching a finger to her reflection.
She knew she should be proud. She’d pieced her life together, found a way to stability, in a career that most people would give their right arm to be part of. Money, fame, success. She had them all.
But she wasn’t happy.
In fact, the only time she had been happy was when she was with Rob.
No. That wasn’t entirely true.
She’d been happy with him and the entire time she was in Stoneybrook.
Because . . . she’d allowed herself to be more than her past, more than the scars and the things that had been done to her. She’d been more than the numbness and fear and living life in a bubble.
Free.
She’d been free.
“And now I’m trapped again,” she whispered. Trapped and miserable and all the more so because she knew what it was to be happy and loved and—
“Ugh!”
Slamming her hands down on the counter, she left the bathroom, grabbed the sweater, and yanked it over her head. If she was going to be trapped and miserable and lonely, she might as well be warm and comfortable.
Just as she’d tugged the sweater over her head, her phone rang.
Heart pounding, she swiped a finger across the screen and lifted it to her ear, not daring to look at the number, not wanting to shatter the hope that it was Rob calling.
She’d ignored his calls for a week, and now all she wanted was to hear his voice.
But that was not to be.
Because when she said, “Hello?” it wasn’t Rob’s voice that answered her.
“Peanut.”
“Ben,” she said with a smile, all the stress and angst she’d been whipping to a frenzy inside her settling with just that one nickname.
“How’s my favorite daughter?” he asked.
“Adopted daughter,” she told him, smiling at the memory. He was the agent who’d saved her from the hellhole her father had sold her into, the one who’d brought her into his home and helped her heal.
A sigh. “Favorite daughter,” he said, in his normal no-nonsense voice.
The one that had dared her to argue about that fact over the years, and the one that told her she wouldn’t win this argument tonight, just as she hadn’t won it at any point in the last decade and a half.
“Favorite daughter,” she repeated dutifully.
“That’s my girl,” he said, his rich voice filling her with warmth. “How are you doing?”
“I’m working.” A laugh. “So, I’m doing great.” Then added before he could ferret out whatever would be in her tone, because her hurricane of feelings would be in her tone and because Ben never failed to detect when she was off, “How was your and Martha’s cruise?”
He sighed again. “Fucking cesspool.”
She snorted. “Then why do you go ever
y year?”
“Why do you think I go?” he asked.
“Martha.” Her heart squeezed. “Because she loves it.”
“Ding. Ding. Ding. And I was gone enough during the early years of our marriage to be happy to humor her, especially when she could have easily left my dumb ass many a time over the years.” He laughed. “How was your time in that little town? Peaceful, I hope? No paparazzi I need to serve with restraining orders?”
Giggling, she shook her head, then realized—duh—that he couldn’t see her. So she said, “Yes to the peace. No to the paparazzi and restraining orders.”
“So why do you sound so sad?”
See what she meant about ferreting?
Stifling a sigh, she murmured, “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll always worry about my favorite daughter.”
“Only daughter, I feel obligated to point out,” she said.
“Just because one fact is true doesn’t mean the other isn’t.”
Soph stopped breathing as those words traveled thousands of miles through the airways then through the speaker of her cell and finally through the hair cells of her ear, moving them and shifting the tiny bones against the tympanum.
But when they finally processed in her brain, all time stood still.
Just because one thing was true, didn’t mean the other wasn’t.
Just because Rob had loved Carmella, didn’t mean he couldn’t love her, too. Just because she’d been hurt in the past didn’t mean she couldn’t live now.
Was it that easy?
Could it be that easy?
“Soph?” Ben asked, concern heavy in his tone now.
“I’m here,” she told him. “I’m just . . . did Martha ever resent you bringing me home?”
A sharp inhale followed by a long silence.
Heart pounding, she waited for him to answer, waited for a response to a question she hadn’t even comprehended that she’d needed answering.
“Did you?” she asked softly into the silence.
Another inhale, this one paired with a curse. “Are you fucking kidding me, Soph? Where are you right now? Because I’m going to get my ass on a plane so I can come shake that thought out of you.” His words were rapid and clipped. “No, seriously, where are you?” he snapped when she didn’t immediately answer.
“Italy,” she mumbled.
“Ach,” he growled. “I should have stayed in the Mediterranean. Would have been easier to get to you and smack some sense into that pretty head of yours.”
“Ben,” she began.
“No, Soph,” he said. “Stop talking, because I’m only going to say this once, and I want to make sure you’re listening.”
Lips parting on a shaky exhale, she waited.
“I have never regretted bringing you home to join our family. Not one time,” he added firmly. “Neither have Martha or the boys. From the moment you walked into our house, too fucking skinny and still healing from your injuries, but with your chin held high and your shoulders straight, none of us have ever had anything except for the greatest amount of love and respect for you.” His voice was husky. “The only thing I regret, the only thing, is that I didn’t get there sooner, and because of that, you suffered.” He blew out a breath, tone evening out. “Well, that and also that you never really got justice, since that fucker was killed before he stood trial.”
“Actually, I was always thankful for that,” she whispered. “Thankful that he died, and I didn’t have to stand in front of him and remember. Same as my father and mother.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “It was almost easier that they’d been killed. I didn’t have to face them, to look into their eyes and remember the fate they’d thrust upon me.”
“I get that, Soph,” he said, “and I think anyone in your situation would feel the same as you.”
She sighed. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you’re sad? You’re remembering the past?”
“No.” Her lips pressed flat, released. “Yes, I guess. It’s just . . . have you ever thought you had everything in your life figured out, and then it all went topsy turvy?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, honey, I have. What’s going on?”
“I—” She broke off. “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet, but I just . . . for so long I didn’t think that I could be normal, have normal relationships, and I got really good at keeping everyone at a distance. Well, I wasn’t so great at it with you Jacksons.” She laughed. “I never stood a chance against the force of you and my five older, pushier brothers.”
“Damn right, you didn’t.”
She smiled. “You guys were there for me when things were the worst, but I know I’ve pulled back from the family over the last few years.”
“You were busy building a career.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “But also, it was easier.”
A long pause. “Easier how?”
“Easier for me to pretend it never happened.”
He inhaled sharply. “Peanut,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“How could you?” she said, or maybe croaked, her throat was so tight from bottled up tears. “I just wondered . . . fuck, not wondered, the truth is that I still wonder how I could possibly be of value when my father sold me.”
Ben cursed, and she wished he was here, that he was wrapping her in his heavy arms, tugging her against his chest, and hugging her tight. He’d always given the best hugs.
“And I hate it,” she said, tears spilling over. “I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but . . .”
“Sometimes it creeps back in,” he finished for her.
“Yes.”
“I wish I could fight this battle for you, Peanut. I wish I could take this burden from you. I wish you wouldn’t have ever been in that shitty situation and so hurt and—” Another curse. “I would give up having you in my life if I could ensure you would have had happiness.”
“Ben,” she whispered, wiping her tears away. “I—”
“But I can’t take it away. I can’t shoulder that weight.” His voice cracked. “But I can tell you that the only way to truly get beyond the things that haunt you is to face them head on.”
Her lungs froze.
“You’re a fighter, Soph. You always have been,” he said. “So now, here’s the opportunity. You’ve identified what’s holding you back, what’s hurting you.” His voice went soft but no less intense. “Fight for yourself. Fight for your happiness. Fight for your life.”
Heart pounding, she said, “I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
Somehow, she smiled. “I promise.”
“Good,” he said. “Now, tell me about this shoot of yours. How are they treating you?”
“Same old,” she told him, and they spent a few minutes catching up about her project and his cruise. She answered automatically but wasn’t really processing anything that came out of her mouth. Eventually, Ben hung up after saying he would call her in a couple of days to check in on her, leaving the conversation swashing around her head like a half-filled bucket.
Fight. Just fight.
Could it really be that easy?
And yet, how could she not fight? How could she not? How—
“Fuck,” she whispered then swapped out her heels for sneakers—sacrilege, she knew—and left her hotel room.
She should be resting, should be reviewing for tomorrow.
But all she could think was that she needed to figure out her own heart and head before she could do any of that. And she knew she wasn’t going to figure out either in here, trapped in her hotel room.
She needed to walk and think and understand why she’d torpedoed the one good thing she’d had going in her life.
Why she hadn’t bothered to fight.
And . . . if she had the strength to fight now.
The next day was a little better.
She was exhausted from her exploits the night before, well, from walking the quiet streets of the smal
l Italian town they were filming in until almost one in the morning, but she had found a little slice of peace.
A narrow stream winding through an open field, babbling softly under the moonlight.
It wasn’t the ocean or its waves pounding against a shoreline.
But it was a peaceful place and one that had given her time to think.
To remember . . . everything.
The bad and the good, the painful and not, and most of all, she’d been able to remember the girl she once had been. And she’d decided she didn’t want to go back to that naïve, silly girl, the one who’d thought the world was all easy kindness and getting everything she wanted.
It wasn’t that she liked holding on to what had happened to her.
No, part of her still thought it would be better off buried. But she’d tried that already, and it had made her miserable.
So, she’d decided that she didn’t need to like what happened to her.
She could fucking hate it, despise the people who’d hurt her, and still love herself.
Because she could fight.
And she was going to, dammit.
For herself . . . and for Rob.
The elevator dinged, and she trudged off, heels dragging on the carpet, eyes barely open as she made her way down the hall to her room.
Which was probably why she didn’t notice the person there.
Why she didn’t notice the man standing outside her door.
Not until he’d snagged the key out of her hand, not until he’d opened the door to her room and tugged her inside, not until the scream was bubbling up out of her throat.
Twenty-Nine
The Reckoning
Rob
She was dead on her feet.
He could see that from a mile away.
At first, he’d felt a stab of pain, thinking she was ignoring him. But then he’d seen her face, the way her eyes were downcast and not processing her surroundings—later, they’d discuss that.
Now, they had other things to sort.
“It’s me,” he said, placing a finger to her lips to stymie her startled yell.