Page 39 of The Trouble with Flings

“You’ve ruined me, too, wild girl,” I admit, and seal those words with another kiss before she can take it back.

Jennifer is quiet as we dress. I feel a shift in her energy, a sudden chill around her as she pulls on jeans and a cute tank top.

She’s backsliding, shoring up her walls.

My gut tightens, edged with irritation as she packs the few things she brought over. We stayed in my suite the last few nights, and hell if I didn’t get used to us starting and ending our days together. I caught myself more than once toying with a future that included her, even though I knew better.

Trying to play it cool, so I don’t scare her off, I rake a hand through my wet hair and then wrap an arm around her from behind. I kiss her cheek and say, “Sucks to have to leave, huh?”

She nods, almost managing a smile that makes me wonder if I’m reading her wrong. Maybe she is just bummed about leaving.

“When do I get to see you again, wild girl? I can head into the city next weekend, or if you want an escape, you can come to the island and I’ll pamper you all weekend long.”

She stills in my arms. “Fitz.”

My stomach sinks. I’ve never heard one word sound so much like the beginning of an ending.

She lifts her eyes to the mirror, and it’s all right there, as clear as day. Her retreat, a modicum of regret, and that damn resilience. “Fitz—”

“Don’t say it.” I step back, holding up my hand, the sting of it sinking in.

“This has been great. It’s been amazing, but we agreed—”

“I know what we agreed,” I say firmly. “I just can’t believe that after everything, after how close we got, you want to walk away and act like this didn’t mean anything. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she argues. “Why is it that if a woman doesn’t want more, it has to be out of fear, but when a guy cops out, it’s never questioned? I told you I wasn’t looking for a relationship. It’s that simple. I like you, Fitz, but you’re the kind of guy a girl marries and starts a family with. That’s not for me, and we don’t even live in the same city. We both know that’s not going to change.”

She’s not wrong about any of it, but she’s also not telling me everything that’s going on in that stubborn head of hers. I’m smart enough to know that pointing that out right now will only cost me ground I can’t afford to lose.

“Fair enough,” I say, not cold or unkind, just simple acceptance.

She watches me pick up my watch from the nightstand and fasten it around my wrist. I can see her recalibrating, expecting a fight I’m not going to give.

“I’ll have the concierge call us a car,” I say.

“Your flight isn’t until later this afternoon,” she says. “I’ll take care of getting to the airport. I think it’s best if we leave this here. I don’t want to chance ruining a good memory.”

I look at her then, thinking about the yacht and the casino, the ocean and the waterfall, and how many times she exhaled against me this week like she did this morning, and my heart takes several hits. Already missing my whirlwind girl who took me out of my comfort zone and made me look forward to every minute of every day, I frame her face between my hands, gazing into her strong, troubled eyes, wanting to say so many things and knowing each one of them would send her running even faster.

“It won’t ever go bad, Jennifer,” I say softly. “If only you’d let yourself believe that.”

She tries to smile but doesn’t quite make it.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and kiss her one last time, slowly and deeply, leaving her with a piece of myself I know I’ll never get back. When our lips part, her eyes remain closed long enough for me to know that no matter what she says, she feels the immensity and rarity of what we have, too.

I wrap her in my arms, breathing her in, wishing I could make her feel safe enough to trust herself.

“Take care of yourself, wild girl,” I say against her temple. Then I head out to the balcony, so she can leave without the pressure of feeling what I know with absolute certainty.

I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Eleven

Jennifer

New Year’s Eve in the city isn’t just an event. It’s a living, breathing beast that consumes you with its energy. There are eight million people in this city, and approximately seven million of them are outside right now, sharing the collective delusion that the next twelve months will change their lives. Mia and I are at a private party in NightCaps bar, and I’m trying to pretend that I don’t feel like I’m standing outside all that energy, watching through a window.

Mia waves the bartender over and orders another drink. She tucks her shoulder-length straight dark hair behind her ear, looking like a million bucks in a sleek designer dress and sky-high heels, which she moves in like they’re sneakers. She picks up her glass, eyeing my dirty martini. “You’ve been nursing that thing for an hour. What is up with you?”