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“No. I turned my phone off.”
He frowns. “I doubt he means it’s over. He probably just meant this evening.”
My eyes sting. “I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve tried so hard, you have no idea, and he’s just mean to me. I’m always the one who ends up apologizing because I can’t stand the bad atmosphere. I’m a nice person. I don’t deserve this. I deserve better than him. I don’t want to be with him anymore.”
Upset, furious, and heartbroken, I can’t stop the tears, and they tumble over my lashes.
“Ahhh…” Henry sighs.
He directs me over to the sofa. “Sit there,” he instructs. He passes me a box of tissues. “I’ll call room service. We need alcohol, stat.” He picks up the phone and dials.
I try to stop crying as Henry talks to the person on the other end of the phone. He asks for a bottle of Jameson, a bottle of London gin, and another bottle of vermouth. He knows I like dry martinis.
Then after he hangs up, he goes over to the kitchen and takes a few miniatures out of the minibar. He opens a can of G&T and pours it into a glass, opens a tiny bottle of whisky and tips it over ice, then brings them through to the living area.
“Here.” He passes me the G&T and sits beside me. “If you want to get drunk, you’re going to have to drink more than one an hour.”
I have a big mouthful, cough as the alcohol sears through me, then have another.
“But don’t drink it too quickly,” he says hastily, taking the glass from me and putting it on the table.
I cover my face with my hands. “I just want it to stop. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Ah don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart.”
I don’t mean that I want to die, but I do want the pain to be over. I don’t want to have to deal with Cam and his moods and problems. I want to stop being so unhappy.
The tears come for real, and this time I can’t stop them.
“Come here.” Henry holds up an arm. I turn toward him and bury my face in his neck. He lowers his arms around me, and I dissolve into wracking sobs that I couldn’t control any more than fly.
He strokes my back and kisses the top of my head, and murmurs comforting things like, “Everything’s going to be okay,” and “It’s all right, I’m here.” I know I’m soaking his Henley, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s big and warm, and he’s holding me tightly. I wish I could stay here forever, safe and secure in his arms.
When was the last time Cam held me like this? I honestly can’t remember.
My tears are just starting to die down when there’s a knock at the door. I sit up and wipe my face. “I’ll just go to the bathroom.”
“Okay, it’s through there.” He gestures at the bedroom.
I rise and leave him to answer the door, go into the bedroom, and close the door.
He wore a suit to work today, so I’m not surprised to see it hanging on the outside of the wardrobe door. His discarded shirt lies over the top of his suitcase. I pick it up and press my nose to it. It smells of his cologne, something masculine, exotic, and dark—the scent of leather, wood, and incense.
I blink, embarrassed at the thought of him catching me sniffing his clothes, put the shirt down, and go into the bathroom. Yes, there’s the bottle—Louis Vuitton’s Nuit de Feu, no doubt several hundred dollars a bottle, knowing Henry. He’s not ostentatious by any means, but he likes his expensive colognes, his Omega watches, and his sleek cars.
Next to the cologne is his razor, shaving foam, hair product, and toothbrush. Water pools on the floor of the shower, and the towel over the rack is damp. He had a shower before he came out, although he obviously didn’t shave, judging by his five o’clock shadow. I feel oddly shy at this glimpse into his life.
I look at myself in the mirror and sigh. The kohl and mascara have run—I should have worn waterproof makeup. I look like a panda. Using the hotel’s complimentary items, I remove it all. It’s not the first time he’s seen me au naturel, and he won’t care.
When I’m done, I go out and discover Henry seated again, this time at the other end of the sofa. He’s put the bottles on the coffee table, along with a jug containing a few ice cubes and a spoon. He’s also retrieved a small box of chocolates and a tube of Pringles from the minibar.
“Everything a girl needs when she’s had her heart broken,” he says. He smiles at me. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.” I sit back on the sofa. I finish off the G&T, cough, and hold my glass out to him.
He pours out a large measure of gin into the jug over the ice, adds a splash of vermouth, mixes it with the spoon, and pours it into my glass. “A bit rough,” he says, handing it back to me, “but it’ll do the job.”
I have a mouthful and sigh. “God, that’s good.” I gesture to his glass. “You’ve got to keep up with me, come on.”
