Page 35 of Playing Mr. Perfect

I sidle up to Pepper as the others chat about their next destination and decide to play it cool. “So, where are we singles heading tomorrow?”

“I’m heading back to Charlottesville.” That apologetic softness shows in her eyes again.

Everything seems to move in slow motion as I process that new information, and disappointment sinks in.

“This is Pepper’s first vacation since graduate school,” Brindle says. “And she isn’t even staying for a full week. You should give her crap about that. We even told her we’d go to Greece just for her, because it’s the one place she really wants to go.”

“Brindle, enough,” Pepper says softly.

“Clay, are you sticking around?” Dash asks.

“Only for a few more days,” I say absently, unable to take my eyes off Pepper, who seems unable to take her eyes off me, too.

“Do you want to hit London with us?” Dash asks.

“Or you can come to Barcelona with us,” Graham suggests.

“No, thanks. I think I’ll stick around here.”

Pepper tears her gaze away from me and waves her hand nervously. “I guess this is goodbye. I’m going up to my room to pack. I have an early flight tomorrow. I love you guys.”

“We’re heading up, too,” Amber says.

Pepper hugs everyone, and the others promise to send her pictures from the rest of their trip. She stands awkwardly in front of me, fidgeting with her hands. My chest constricts at the idea of this being it for us. I don’t know why it’s hitting me so hard, and I hate that she looks so uncomfortable after all we’ve done. I want to pull her aside and talk about it, but that’s not an option without causing her trouble, so I open my arms and say, “Get in here, bus buddy.”

The others laugh, and she gifts me a genuine smile and steps into my embrace. Hell if it doesn’t feel like she belongs there. There are so many things I want to say, but I have to keep it light with the others listening. “Thanks for hanging out with me.”

“It was fun,” she says too animatedly, and starts to pull away.

I tighten my hold just long enough to whisper, “You can run, but you can’t hide, Reckless.”

Chapter Ten

Pepper

I toss my suitcase on the bed, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The low-cut, easy-access wrap dress I’d hoped would drive Clay mad clings to my body, my favorite black lace thong and matching bra going to waste beneath it. My heart hasn’t stopped racing, or aching, since we met for dinner, which is when it hit me that my time with Clay was over, and it wouldn’t be fair to pretend otherwise. That ache shows in my eyes. They look so dull, I have to turn away.

I hated saying goodbye to him, and I hated doing it in front of everyone else, which shouldn’t matter, since I wouldn’t have told him that his kisses were the best I’d ever had anyway or that I can’t stop thinking about last night or how much fun it was to spend time with him. I force myself to begin the arduous task of packing, tugging open the dresser drawer, absently unfolding and refolding my clothes, telling myself it’s just as well. It’s not like he’s my forever person. This was just a fling.

My stomach knots up. It didn’t feel like a fling.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain and tilt my face up to the ceiling, groaning. Why is this so hard? Why can’t I be like Sable used to be? Able to walk away without looking back. Why did she get all the fling-resilient genes? I imagine my twin in our mother’s womb, gathering and hoarding those genes, thinking she’s protecting me from heartache.

Ugh. Now I’m just being ridiculous.

I sink down to the edge of the bed, clutching the shirt I wore last night and press it to my nose, soaking in the faint scent of cedarwood and the unique smell of Clay. I don’t know how his scent could have seeped into my clothing, but I’m glad it did. I smell it again, and then I force myself to put the shirt in the suitcase and go back to folding my clothes. But his face is all I see. His playful smile, the dimples that make my insides go hot. Tell me to stop, or give me that mouth. A shudder of heat follows his voice in my head.

I may not know anything about flings, but I know my battery-operated boyfriend will never satisfy me again.

What am I doing?

I am not someone who pines for a man. I’m a scientist. I deal with facts, not chemically induced lust or runaway hormones. I need to think rationally. Tomorrow I’ll go back to my real life, and Clay will probably find some other woman to hang out with here in Paris. A stab of jealousy hits me, but I refuse to give in to it. I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with him being with someone else. That’s what people do after having flings. They tuck away the memories of their fun times and carry on.

I can do that. I can do anything.

I mentally bundle up those happy, sexy memories and stomp them with my pointy heels, but they keep popping back up like freaking jack-in-the-boxes.

“I’m so not built for flings.”