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“Holt isn't innocent,” he grinds out. My throat feels like it's going to close.

I'm not ready to talk about him. I don't know if I'm ever going to be ready to talk about him.

“He's not a fool.” Tate pushes on. “He knows, Faye. Whether he wants to admit it to himself or not, he knows. He knows you, and he knows me. He's letting this happen. He's letting you be with me. He's choosing his life, and he's letting you choose yours.” His hand tightens around my ankle. I can feel his tension radiating through his touch, but it never grows so tight that he hurts me.

“You are not the villain,” he drives his point home like a dagger straight to my heart.

My voice is so pathetically small even though I search for strength. “It doesn't feel that way.”

“I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you're wrong.”

My eyes burn. I want to give this man even a fraction of what he's given to me. I want to be the thing that he dreams of.

He wants a family. He wants a beautiful, simple life in a beautiful, simple town, and I want to be the woman that gives it to him.

But I can't deny the ugly truth that sits like a weight in my belly—the love I wish I didn't feel that lives immortal inside me.

Because how can I love Tate? How can I give him everything that he dreams of—everything that he wants—if I hold the same affection for his brother?

“I have something for you,” Tate tells me, shifting to shove a hand into the pocket of his pyjama pants. I frown when he pulls out a gold chain with a delicate gold plate. “I’ve had it for a while. It just—it never felt like the right time to give it to you.”

I stare as he fixes the chain around my ankle. His thumb slides over the plate, and he whispers, “He loves you.”

“Tate—” My throat closes around his name. Tears I refuse to let fall swell in my eyes.

“It’s okay to love him.” Tate’s voice tears into my thoughts, shredding the innermost parts of me to ribbons. “But loving him doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to let yourself live. It doesn’t mean you’re meant to punish yourself into a life of misery. Loving him doesn’t mean—” He cuts off, jaw grinding to contain the words I now need him to say with the same desperation that I need air in my starved lungs.

“Loving him doesn’t mean what?” I gasp.

His eyes slam into mine. “Loving him doesn’t mean you can’t love me.”

17

A FORTUNE FOR FORTUNE

DECEMBER 2009 – 20 YEARS OLD

Iput my phone down as the scent of coffee permeates the air.

Faye must be awake, but I didn't hear her leave her room. I was probably too distracted by the article I was reading to hear the telling click of her door.

With a stretch, I throw back my covers. I lift my discarded pyjama pants from the floor, shoving my legs into the fabric before I swipe my phone from the nightstand, heading for my door.

I find Faye in the kitchen, but she doesn't notice me right away. She's standing, hip against the counter. I can't see her face, but I know her eyes are dipped to the screen of her phone.

I creep up behind her, stealing a peek over her shoulder. It’s just a glance, but I already know exactly what she's looking at.

Last night's game highlights. I know because it had been the exact article I had been reading not ten minutes ago. Averting my eyes, I say nothing as I reach into the cupboard, grabbing a cup. The sound of it connecting with the countertop startles her, and she jumps.

“Oh!” She whirls to face me, her hand coming to her chest. She clicks the button on her phone, making the screen go dark. “You startled me.”

“Good morning.” I pour coffee into my cup and lean into the counter. I don't let on that I know what she was reading. We talked enough about Holt last night. I don't want to bring him up again. And I don't hold it against her—her curiosity about his life now. Just like I don't hold the fact that she still holds love for him in her heart against her. I could never hold anything against her, even as, in the same breath, I wish she didn't love him.

I wish she never loved him…

“How long have you been up?” I ask, taking a sip of the brew.

“Not too long,” she answers, sounding a little guilty. Her guilt is amplified as she side-eyes me nervously. It’s kind of adorable.