When I Was You Read Online Free PDF Page B

God. Maybe we’re not quite there yet, and I’ve jumped the proverbial gun . . .
    “I know. It’s random. Don’t ask me how my mind works. I couldn’t even begin to tell you.” I play off my question with a quiet laugh before hiding half my face behind my mug.
    He switches his coffee to his left hand, resting his right arm around the back of the swing—behind me—as he crosses his legs. I can’t be sure, but I think his fingertips just brushed against my shoulders.
    “Yeah, I think about it sometimes. Other times I try not to think about it,” he says. “Guess the separation’s really done a number on me.”
    My breath catches, and it couldn’t be more obvious.
    He’s separated?
    Had he mentioned that once before, and I missed it?
    Or did I know, and I’d simply forgotten? I do that lately, forget things.
    My heart sinks, and I glance down at the warm mug now nestled between my thighs. I want to know everything about the woman he married, and I want to know why it didn’t work out—or if there’s still a chance. Of course someone like him would’ve found love.
    Niall deserves happiness.
    He deserves love.
    I hope for his sake, they’re able to work things out.
    But secretly—selfishly—I hope for my sake that it doesn’t happen too soon. He’s only been in my life a short while, and already I can’t imagine it without him. Obviously I don’t know his wife, but I can’t imagine she would be okay with her husband maintaining a close friendship with another woman.
    I don’t want to think about that, though . . .
    Not right now.
    “I’m sorry, Niall, I—” I begin to say.
    “Don’t be.” He offers me a warm smile that fades fast, replaced by a quick flex of his jaw. “Sometimes things happen in life that are beyond our control. We can only do so much.”
    I’m not sure if he’s talking about his separation or reciting some line he feeds his terminally ill patients when all treatment avenues have been exhausted, but his tone is laced in bittersweet, and all I want to do is take his hand.
    But I don’t.
    It isn’t appropriate, and I wouldn’t want him to think I’m some opportunistic sad sap.
    Rising, I rest one hand behind my hip and stretch my lower back.
    “Think I’m going to get started on that housework now,” I say.
    I take three steps to the front door, and then I glance back toward him. “Oh, hey, thanks for checking on me. Had one of those migraines again.”
    “What? When?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
    “Last night. Or maybe it was two nights ago . . . ,” I say, starting to wonder if it was actually a dream. “You came into my room? Stood in the doorway? Said you got home and the house was dark so you wanted to check on me?”
    His lips press flat, and he squints toward the street, lost in thought almost.
    “I got home around five Thursday night,” he says. “Saw your migraine meds were sitting out and your door was closed, so I left you alone . . . didn’t want to wake you. Last night I didn’t come home until ten. Figured you were sleeping.”
    I laugh, hoping maybe he’s teasing, but Niall’s too serious to be the joking type and too much of a medical professional to kid about something like this.
    “I swear I saw you.” I think I’m going to be sick. I know what I saw. I heard his whispers as they traveled across the dark room. The more I think about it, it was too real to be a dream. “You were in the doorway . . .”
    His chin juts forward, his brows meeting. “Nope. Not me.”
    My hand fastens around the handle on the screen door. “Huh.”
    “Could have been a visual disturbance. Those meds can mess with your REM cycle if you take too much.”
    I want to believe him.
    I need to believe him.
    I have to believe him.

CHAPTER 7
    I can’t shake the feeling that what I saw the other night wasn’t a dream or “visual disturbance” as Niall insists, so I spend a good portion of Saturday afternoon inspecting every square inch of the