“It doesn’t make sense.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel, and I tried not to think about how beautiful his hands were in this life: broad palms, short nails, sun-golden skin stretched over the peaks of his knuckles. Those twines and ribbons tied around his wrists. My gaze hitched on a piece of narrow red, though I couldn’t say for certain why. Only that it yanked a cord somewhere deep in my chest. “Love rarely does.” I smiled ruefully. “And you’d have done the same for me.”
This book is so cringy.
