The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

shoulders thrusting up into my vision. “Hit me if you will. Hurt me if you want. But I’m not going to go away.” He hesitates, his eyes gauging my reaction, exploring my face as his jaw drops. “I love you, Anne Cassidy Anderson. And I am sorry for what I did to you. So, do your worst. Hurt me if you will. But don’t walk away…because that wouldn’t just hurt me. That would kill me. And I’m hoping you won’t do that.”

His eyes plead with me—those glacial blue rings of molten flame thawing my defenses on the spot, and a wave of emotion swells inside me that I can’t tamper down.

Because I want to kill him.

I want to hurt him.

Hurt him for hurting me.

Hurt him for lying.

I want to hurt him for being the opposite reflection of me—so much the same in so many ways, and yet so different that he pulls a whole different side out of me.

And it would be easy.

Easy to drive the dagger home. Easy to walk away and pretend I don’t care.

Because I’d be lying.

Lying to myself about who I am and what I want all of my life…

Until him.

And it makes me want to injure him. Make him bleed.

Slam my fists into his large chest to mimic the beating of his heart because I know, against all the odds, Andrew’s heart is finally wide open.

Wide open for me.

But I don’t do any of that.

My fingers lock around the back of his neck, pulling.

His hair is soft, fine, but thick and cushy to the touch. His lips are so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my face. The tears are on the cusp of breaking and I can’t stop them from falling.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I don’t want to hurt you.” His lips graze mine and I swear I can feel the electricity between us.

“But you already have.”

“And I hate myself for that.”

He doesn't know it…but I hate him too.

I hate Lincoln Andrew Fletcher. And I love him.

All versions of him.

What I said to myself after talking to Sophia earlier was wrong.

So very wrong. And now I know it.

I didn't need to meet with Eric or wait to figure things out.

Turns out that I, Anne Cassidy Anderson, can love a liar, after all.

I kiss him hard.

Chapter 24

ANDREW

I need to hear Nancy say it.

Need to hear her say the three words that will put me out of my misery.

The three words that will release me from this prison of my own making.

I remember a time when those three words we used most frequently with each other were “I hate you” or “We need ice”—words that only passed between us at the bar when we were serving or tending or keeping or bugging the hell out of each other.

Now, we’re somewhere different. Or somewhere the same.

Or maybe both.

Either way, I know I need the words to come out of her lips the second the BMW is parked in front of the estate.

And even though I’ve told her everything—explained how I got the loan for the bar, detailed every single segment of Frank’s ridiculous plan that I had no intention of ever fucking following, I need her to say that she believes me.

That she wants me.

That she needs me as much as I need her.

I need to see her. All of her.

And I need to hear her voice and hers alone.

I tear up the driveway by foot on a rampage, Nancy at hand.

I’m not sure if the caterers have been outside, but I don’t care.

I can’t wait to see her naked body. To be skin to skin. To be alone with her.

To be inside her.

The house's grand room is filled with all kinds of people: the caterers, Hannah’s boring in-laws—the Bannekers, the band, the officiants, and relatives.

There are too many people in here. I throw open the front door as if to tear the family out. Only then do I notice that they’re coming from the other direction.

Running full-speed, I take Nancy’s hand and pull her into the house and up to the second level hall. We’re both breathing heavy. We’re both sweating. I’m not sure how fast we’re running, but I’m pretty sure it’s faster than the beemer we drove here from the city.

The second my hands touch her skin, I know I’m in trouble.

I’m not sure about anything—not the law, not even time.

I’m not even sure about my own name.

But I am absolutely sure about one thing…

Her.

My little Anne. My perfect pixie.

Her face is flushed, nearly the hue of her ginger-gold hair, and her eyes are green—deep emerald green.

She’s beautiful.

I love it when she gets like this—flustered and blushing, that peachy skin of hers turning gorgeous shades of Rosé.

And I can't wait. Can't wait to have her all to myself.

And this time, I’ll make it right. I’ll make it right for her. For us.

Picking her up as soon as we hit the threshold of my bedroom, I cross the room in giant strides, depositing her gently on the white bedspread, my hands caging her in while she sits there, looking up at me.

Her arms wrap around my neck, and I know with everything in me that I could stay like this—with her, this way, forever.

And when she withdraws her hands, her elegant fingers sinking into the sheets beneath her body as she stares, I realize that I am shaking.

Literally shaking.

I'm nervous. For the first time in my life.

Me.

A man—a fucking billionaire heir—who took a job as a bartender for the women alone.

A man who's been with his fair share of women—who's been with most men’s fair share of women.

And I’m shaking like a bowl of Jell-O.

I steady myself, or at least I try, as I gaze down at the woman who's brought out the best of me—all of my sides in all their fucked-up shades and glory.

I reach up, touching her face. My eyes scan her body—the curves, the slight