Free The Darkest Joy by Marata Eros Page A

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    “Okay,” I reply, more off-kilter than ever.
    “Catch ya later, Brooke,” Evan says and walks off.
    I look after him, wondering why his expression was tinged with sadness.
    Is it catching? Is my bullshit contagious?
    “Brooke?”
    I swing around and Chance is leaning against the door frame. The short sleeve of his shirt rides up just enough for me to catch another glimpse of his tattoo.
    My eyes drift back to his.
    He smiles. It’s so real I can touch it, as if it were the sun, sliding through rain clouds.
    And I know it then, though I try to deny it. Resisting the inevitable.
    I’m falling for Chance. How could I not? I feel like I’m beyond fixing, but in that cold, wet heart of an Alaskan night,he saved me. And those floating pieces of my heart have begun to find each other again. Chance has begun the mending of it. Whether he meant to or not, it’s happening.
    But he’s most definitely not falling for me.
    “Let’s talk,” he says, all business, and my stomach falls like a stone in a lake.
    Great.
    He pulls open the door and the bell tinkles as I walk through it and pass by Chance, getting the slightest hint of his scent.
    It’s not rank seawater either.
    I find myself wanting to know exactly what it is, when I’m busy seeing where the tat ends. Yeah.
    I turn and he sweeps his palm toward the chair.
    I sit and hold my breath.
    “I’ve already hired you. However,” he spreads his palms wide and away from his body, leaning against the beaten boards of the wall behind him, glass windows flank his form, his ankles crossed. “I think we have to talk about . . . what happened.”
    I look down at my hands. I can’t tell him . He can’t know . . . if he does I’ll have to face his pity, or judgment. Or whatever.
    I look up. “Listen, I’ve been through something and I drank too much last night . . .”
    “So you decided to swan dive off the pier?” Chance asks, his brows rising to the short dark hair that frames a hard face: square jaw, cleft chin, yesterday’s stubble.
    A beautiful face.
    Gawd . “Well . . . no. I mean,” my eyes flick to his and they’re leveled on me. Not going anywhere. “I’m trying to make a new start.”
    “I can’t have you on my boat if you think you’re going to”—his intense eyes stay steady on mine—“do a repeat,” he finishes softly.
    I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
    There’s a long pause and he exhales, raking a hand through his dark hair, those deep eyes nailing me . . . boring holes deep inside me, carving up my soul with the pathway of their intensity.
    “You don’t think or you don’t know?”
    We stare at each other and I say, “I don’t think.”
    “Shit, that puts me in a tough spot.” He puts his hands on his hips and paces in front of me.
    “I know,” I reply in a whisper. I just can’t lie . . . not to him. I put a hand over my heart. Trying to hold in my misery through the hole that’s there. My emotions are all over the place.
    He stops in front of the window and gazes out at the sea. The whitecaps look like whipping cream against a green that mimics the grayness of the sky, the water reflecting the turmoil of my day.
    He spins around and pegs me with those eyes. “I can’t . . . let you go. God knows I should. But I want to try to help. And I think . . . I think this will be a good job for you.”
    “You don’t have to,” I say. I don’t need the money, I need to heal . . . but he doesn’t know that.
    But maybe he’s not blind.
    Chance walks to my chair, his hands wrapping the armrests.
    “I know,” he says. Suddenly he jerks the chair so close our faces are inches from touching. “I don’t do shit I don’t want to.”
    “Then why . . .” I start, my mind filling in the blanks, do you want to ? My mind finishes my own question.
    “Because I want to,” he whispers in answer, his crisp, minty breath filling my nose.

SIX

Chance
    I told myself never to get involved, really