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So goddamn angry.
Daphne walked to the window and looked out over the city.
Yes, she could be upset with the system, but she was overreacting by being upset with Chris before she’d given him a chance to prove she was wrong, that he wouldn’t throw her under the bus.
She turned to face him. “Can we talk about this?”
“No.”
That set her back, blinking. “What?”
His face hardened. “There’s nothing to talk about, Daphne. I won’t let them do this to you.”
Won’t let them do it to her? Or to him?
It’s easy to say you support my career… until supporting it affects you.
Like Anthony, who’d stayed up with her all night as she sobbed in his arms after her mother’s diagnosis. He’d vowed to be there for her through it all. Then came the day when the doctor admitted Mom’s chemo wasn’t working. The doctor wanted to speak to Daphne, and so she needed to reschedule her weekend getaway with Anthony.
Instead of hearing that her mother was dying, truly dying, he heard that he wasn’t getting his weekend away. She’d come home and found a letter in her apartment, telling her that he needed someone who made time for him in her life, as if she’d canceled for a damned manicure.
Chris wasn’t Anthony. She couldn’t let that old pain and anger sweep her away. Chris would be reasonable. She just needed him to understand.
“I won’t try convincing you to be my coauthor, Chris,” she said. “That’s obviously your choice. I just want to talk about options.”
He shook his head. “There are no options here, D. You wrote the book. It will succeed without me. Don’t let Milner hold this over your head. We’ll go to the signing tonight and tell the truth.”
“What? No. We need to talk to—”
“It’s your career. You make the decisions.”
She stared at him. He stood there, jaw firm, green eyes lit with righteous fury.
“I make the decisions?” she said, and the ice in her voice should have warned him off, but he only nodded, seeming relieved that she understood.
“I make the decisions,” she repeated. “And do whatever you tell me.”
He blinked, rocking back. Then he shook his head sharply. “No, that’s not what I mean.”
“But it’s what you said, Chris. It’s literally what you just said.”
She snatched her wallet from the table and marched to the door.
“Hold on,” he said behind her. “Let’s—”
The door closed behind her, and she strode toward the stairs… and then broke into a run.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHRIS
Math nerds had a reputation for being boring. As Chris had long ago figured out, sometimes “boring” really meant stable and dependable and responsible, all things he considered positive traits, even if, yes, they weren’t very exciting.
Sometimes, though, being responsible got in the way of being the kind of boyfriend he wanted to be. The kind who raced after his distraught girlfriend and left his wallet, phone, and key card behind. He’d dashed to the door, of course. Then he’d thought Key! and turned to grab it, but it wasn’t on the hall table, so he ran back into the bedroom, snatched it up, and took off.
By then, Daphne was long gone.
On the elevator, he ignored the responsible voice that said he was in his bare feet and didn’t have his wallet or phone. Finding Daphne was more important. Show up in socks and shoes, and it would look like he didn’t care enough to run after her.
