Page 37 of My Fallen Saint

“You should have told me.”

“I only found out after I got home tonight, and Lamar had already picked you up. A courier from the DSF brought it, apologizing left and right. I guess it was supposed to have been delivered days ago.”

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “So? Tell me about last night. I watched an entire second movie after you walked down the hill for coffee.” She says the last with air quotes. “After that, I was too zonked to stay awake. And since you still haven’t told me why you took so long, I’m just flat out asking.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well, I got a bit sidetracked.”

Her perfectly shaped brows rise. “Did you even get coffee, or did you go back to that bar and pick somebody up?”

I wince. Sometimes it’s a bitch having friends who know you that well.

“I knew it. You—”

“Well, the plan was coffee…”

“Elsa Holmes! Did you fuck him?”

“No,” I say firmly, because it’s technically true. I did not fuck Mr. GT. And what I did with Alex doesn’t technically meet the definition either.

“But?”

“What makes you think there’s a but?”

“With you, there always is.”

I start to protest that she’s exaggerating, except that she’s probably not. And she knows it. My bad for telling her the details of far too many encounters during our late-night phone calls over the years. “Fine. There’s a but.” I tug her off to the side, so that we’re away from other guests. “Devlin Saint was there.”

She leans back, suitably shocked. “What. In the bar again?”

“Yup.” It’s only a tiny geographical lie.

For a moment, we’re both silent. Then I guess she realizes I’m not going to continue, so she presses with, “And?”

“He, um, scared away my potential hook-up.”

“Oh, really?” Her voice rises with interest. “And then he hit on you?”

“You could say that.” The cold, bitter weight of guilt settles in my stomach. She’s my best friend, but I’m only giving her crumbs.

“Well, be careful,” she says earnestly. “The guy’s a loner, he sleeps around, and he never gets serious. He may be rich, but you don’t want to be part of his stable.”

“I don’t think he holds on to any woman long enough to have a stable.”

“Fine. He’s a serial dater. He doesn’t get serious.”

“Who said anything about serious? And it’s not like any of those women are stepping up to complain. Presumably they’re in it for the short term, too.” I have no idea why I’m defending him, especially since I really don’t want to hear tales about his Lothario ways.

“You like him.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer anyway.

“Like, no.” And that’s the God’s honest truth, because whatever I’m feeling, it’s a hell of a lot more complicated than like.

“But am I attracted to him? Oh, yeah. Like you wouldn’t even believe.” I hadn’t intended to overshare quite so much, but I need someone to talk to, and for better or worse, Brandy wins the toss. I may not be able to share everything, but even offloading a little bit helps.

Because God help me, I do want him. And if he hadn’t shut things down, I would have let him take me on the hood of his Tesla, even knowing that I’d hate myself in the morning.

Even after everything he did, after the way he hurt me—hell, after the way he’s still hurting me—I want him.

How about that for a fucked up cosmic joke?