Willoughby 01 - Something About Her by Jeannie Ruesch

Author:Jeannie Ruesch
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Jeannie Ruesch
Published: 2011-10-24T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Blythe yanked another weed from the flowerbed in front of her and added it to the growing pile on the ground beside her.

There was something purging about pulling those miserable little weeds-—if weeds had a gender, she was certain they were male—out by their stems, helping the flowerbed breath and feel better. With every yank, the ache throughout her entire body seemed to diminish a tiny amount.

And if she kept at it, hopefully, she’d continue weeding right past whenever Michael and his friend left. She’d come out here practically at the break of dawn, skipping breakfast, doing her best to avoid seeing anyone, specifically Michael.

Because she wanted to see him more than anything.

How did that happen, exactly? He lied to her, manipulated her and completely deceived her about his intentions and she—who apparently had learned nothing the first time around—wanted to seek him out.

She reached forward and yanked on another weed.

“Isn’t that a flower?” The deep voice made her heart race.

Blythe looked down at the weed in her hand, noting it did look suspiciously like a plant, pink flower and all.

“Weeds can have flowers.” She had no idea if that was true. “It doesn’t mean they belong here.”

She wouldn’t look up, but Michael’s feet came to stand just inches away from her own curled up legs.

“We will be leaving soon,” he said softly. He crouched down.

“I know.” Her grip tightened on the weed, or rather the flower whose life she’d prematurely ended. If she grasped it tight enough, focused on the plant, she wouldn’t give in to the urge to beg him to tell her it was all untrue. To beg him to want her, love her.

To beg him to be the man she had thought he was.

“Blythe, look at me.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe I will.”

“Look at me.”

Tears pushed at the back of her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She wanted to be angry, not sad. Anger was easier to face. If she stayed angry with him, she wouldn’t want his comfort.

“Blythe, damn it.” His hand curled around her chin and she jumped, before finally turning her head to look at him.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He reached up to wipe away the tear that fell down her cheek.

“Don’t you do that.” She dropped the flower and arranged her skirts so she could stand up. “I don’t want your affection and your sympathy. You did this to me!”

“I know.”

She hurried past him, intending to leave him right there. Her anger suddenly caught up with the tears, and she whipped around. “You lied to me.”

“Yes.” He stood and watched her warily.

“You deceived me.”

“Yes.”

“You…you thought I was a thief. And a servant!”

A muffled sound emitted from him, and she narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing?”

His expression was wiped clean, but she thought she saw traces of amusement in his eyes. “Not at all, my love.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“But you are. I know I hurt you. I’ll make it up to you, for the rest of our days if it takes that long.

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