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Her pull is stronger than it should be, this need for her company to ease this hollow ache inside me.
It’s an old pain. A wound that never heals, but I never expected Marissa Sullivan to be the one to rip it open and leave me bleeding again.
I shake my thoughts off and head back inside, out of the cold.
The chill’s worn off by the time the elevator lets me off at the top, and I make my way back to the lounge and our table.
Elle’s settled quietly with her pretty legs crossed, resting her chin in her hand while she looks out over the city. Just seeing her there, with the overhead lights picking up the faint hint of shimmering dust on her bare shoulders and the matching gloss of her nails, solidifies something inside me.
She’s always so self-deprecating.
Always hiding behind the splashy colors she wears, less like fashion and more like camouflage.
I don’t think she realizes just how goddamned beautiful she is.
And it’s the sort of beauty that’s almost frightening because it seems so fragile.
Blink, and it could be gone.
Which just makes a man want to hold on even harder.
Yeah, I’m full of strange thoughts tonight. I try to rein them in as I slip back to my seat.
“I see the waiter hasn’t brought our food yet,” I say.
Elle turns her gaze to me, her hazel eyes less tiger orange tonight and more a shade of gold that could make a man stupid as hell.
A small smile flickers over her lips.
“She’s suing you, and you’re worried about her driving drunk.” No BS, just straight to the point. I like that. “You actually paid for her Uber and her tab?”
I nod slowly.
It’s embarrassing when it’s all laid out.
I shrug. “She can pay for it out of the legal fees when we win the suit.”
Elle’s smile widens, her eyes glittering. “Another joke. That’s two now.”
“Mmm.”
Was I joking? I don’t even know.
I don’t feel much like laughing right now.
Now it’s my turn to look out over the broad expanse of the city.
Maybe searching the lights for something to hold on to, just so this feeling doesn’t swallow me whole and ruin what could be a pleasant evening of make-believe.
Elle’s soft voice chases me into the dark places my mind wants to occupy.
“August ...?” she asks, reaching across the table to touch my wrist. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”
When I make myself look back to her, she shakes her head, the few loose tendrils of her hair grazing her slender throat.
“I can’t explain it,” she says. “But that whole thing with Marissa—it seemed like it hurt you.”
I sigh.
