Free Unbreak Me by Lexi Ryan Page B

One second I’m coming my brains out, his hot body pressed against my front, the cold refrigerator pressed against my back, the next he’s apologizing to me? We were just about to have what I’m sure would have been off-the-charts hot kitchen sex, and then Mr. Nice Guy had to go and ruin my fun by apologizing. He’s turning out to be one piss-poor excuse for a bad boy.
    He sits at my kitchen table now, eyeing me. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re moody?”
    He’s probably referring to the fact that I’ve been stomping around the house since that stupid S-word came out of his mouth and tarnished my after glow.
    I grab two beers from the fridge and shove one in his hand. “You’re sorry ? How can you be sorry?”
    He’s pulled his pants back on, slid his arms back into his shirt—though it is still unbuttoned. We should be closing the deal. Maybe for a second time by now. In the bedroom, on the couch, in the shower. But instead I’m trying to figure out what the hell he thinks he needs to apologize for.
    He narrows his eyes at me. “Because I had you up against the fridge with your dress hiked up around your waist. Because I didn’t even take my goddamned shoes off, because whether you believe it or not, you deserve more than that.”
    I groan, running a hand through my hair and flopping into a kitchen chair. What am I thinking, getting involved with this man? He is too touchy-feely for me. “Asher, wake up and smell the third-wave feminism. Women have fantasies too. I happen to find a little frantic, half-clothed kitchen sex hot.”
    That makes him smile. “Me too.” Then he ruins it by sighing and getting all serious again. “Listen. We need to talk.”
    I lean back in my chair. I’m not trying to get away from him exactly, but I’m never anxious to be closer to a man uttering those words. “You’re not going to ruin this by declaring your eternal love for me, are you?” I take a pull from my beer, noticing he hasn’t touched his. “Because, damn it, Asher, I thought better of you.”
    He averts his gaze, making me feel a little panicky until he says, “I do know you from somewhere.”
    “Wait. What?”
    “I know you from somewhere.”
    “That wasn’t just a line after all?” My laughter dies on my lips when I see the gravity in his eyes.
    “We met twelve months ago.”
    I feel myself pale, the blood draining from my face and gathering low in my belly where it roils. I push away from the table.
    Granny was right. My past really is returning. Because twelve months ago, my world changed.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Asher
     
    “I was going to name her Grace.”
    When I first saw the girl sitting by the river twelve months ago, there was so much blood on her hands, I worried she had slit her wrists.
    “Miss?” The redhead sat on the bank of the river, knees drawn to her chin. She ignored me and stared at her bloodstained hands like a tragic Shakespearean tableau.
    “Are you okay?” I inched closer and saw a smudge of blood under her eye, streaked where the tears had run through it. I couldn’t get a good look at her wrists, but assumed she had cut herself there, come to my little edge of river to let the life bleed out of her. “Where are you hurt?”
    She blinked at me, seeming to register my presence for the first time. God. She was probably doped up on all sorts of drugs.
    She shook her head frantically. “I’m not hurt. I’m fine. It’s just a little blood. This happens to some women.”
    But then she squeezed her eyes shut, clung to her legs, and rocked herself back and forth.
    “What’s your name?” I kept my voice low, gentle, as I inched closer.
    “I was going to name her Grace,” she whispered, eyes focused on the river as if it could save her.
    “Who?”
    She bit her lip, shook her head. “I didn’t want this. Not this.”
    She reached a hand down, cupped herself between her legs as if she were trying to hold something there.
    I understood then. I lowered myself