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Claire
The drive to Denver was awkward at first, but as we pass landmarks on the return trip, I think back to all those moments when the alone time with him on the ride here was fun. We talked. We got to know each other. We shared details about our work. I told him about wanting to open my shop. He explained more details about his brothers, how he’s close with Jason but has never been able to connect with Kevin.
When we were heading to Denver, we experienced a sense of companionship that resembled a budding friendship. But after we slept together and tried to morph that into a sexual connection, we screwed it all up.
This ride back to Breckenridge is fraught with tense silence. I break up the unbearable quiet with squeaks on the cushion of the bench seat, courtesy of how often I fidget. I’m so antsy I can’t sit still. It’s a weird lull of no communication at all, but I can’t bring myself to break it. I don’t know how to end this funky tension of no words between us. And I’m not sure that I need to be the one to try to salvage anything between us.
“Too cold?” he asks, jarring me from the overwhelming silence.
I flinch at his voice, and he clears his throat after the words come out croaky. Neither of us has spoken in almost an hour, so yeah, of course, his throat is dry. Mine is, too, dry and tight with emotions, but I rely on a shake of my head instead of telling him no.
“Okay. Just checking.” He lowers his hand from the control for the AC and resumes driving, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. It baffles me just how oblivious he is. I’m not cold and shivering from the AC blasting at us. I’m on edge and wanting to hug myself because his distance is icy and harsh.
I can’t make sense of the one-eighty. Last night, he proved how thorough of a judge he was of me. He could read me like an expert and show his mastery in knowing my body, how to please me and push the right buttons. Yet, today, he is clueless and ignorant of this gap widening between us.
Do I truly mean that little to him?
Sawyer is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. He, without a doubt, can’t struggle to find interested women. He’s built like a hulk, all chiseled muscles, and oozing testosterone. Sure, he’s had lovers before. I know that without having to ask for details that aren’t mine to learn. I can’t be the only woman he’s slept with before, and I wonder if this is simply how he does it and if women are all random conquests to enjoy, then discard the day after. This might just be his style and how he behaves.
Or did I do something wrong? That was the worst fear, that I’d erred somehow. He made it all for me, about me, but maybe that was a turn-off in the end. He already called me high-maintenance. Maybe he’s decided I’m too high-maintenance.
It wouldn’t be so hard to ask and be direct. I’d rather know what mistake I made to have him wanting to treat me so coolly, but I can’t find the courage to ask. We reach my cabin before I can think of how to ask if I’ve turned him off.
Still without a word but offering me a slight, casual smile, he pulls in and parks.
I have to have done something wrong! It’s going to pick at me, wondering and worrying, but I exit the truck, sighing as I watch him get my suitcase and gather my samples.
Dejected and hating this awkwardness, I offer him a weak smile and show him where to set the things I’ve picked up.
He lingers at the doorway, and while I get my hopes up high that he’ll explain himself, he turns to me. “I had a really nice time with you.”
Nice? That’s all he can say about it? It was nice? I give him a weak smile, clinging to this stubbornness to hide my dejection. “Yeah. Me too.” Nice, my ass. The sex was amazing. His compliments, even more so. When he leaves, though, a weird feeling settles in my stomach. It seems a lot like disappointment and a strange sense of missing him already.
It’s not just about the sex. I like him. A lot. But it’s soured by the realization that he has regrets about what we did.
Instead of picking at it and overanalyzing, I dupe myself into thinking it will be a case of what happens in Denver stays in Denver. Setting up my fabric samples and arranging my equipment is a solid distraction that carries me into the evening. I’m only pulled from it all when my phone rings. I stupidly hope it’s Sawyer, while a bigger part of me knows it won’t be.
But I’m not expecting the name that shows on the screen.
I answer, uncaring how bad of a mood I’m in.
“Mother.” I’m curt and if she doesn’t like it, tough.
“Claire. Where in the world have you been hiding?” she demands without raising her voice, so used to getting her way. “You couldn’t tell me that you wanted to leave Paris for a while?”
That was the whole point. Not to tell you.
“What are you even doing out there? Not even in a city.”
I lick my lips, using my confusion about Sawyer’s coolness toward me to fuel my anger. Boldly, I tell her the truth. “I’ve come out here to design a bride’s dress. It will be my first job to kick off my career.”
“Career?” She huffs. “You’re talking nonsense.”
“No, I’m talking about my dream.”
“You don’t need a dream.”
I shake my head, unsure how to make her understand. How does one argue with a heartless, soulless person who’s never had a goal other than to be rich and spoiled?
