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Ouch. “You could have said that before.”
“Why should I bother?”
I widen my eyes not to let any tears escape. It would ruin my makeup. At least he’s not looking at me. “Last time you wanted me to ignore you more.”
He says nothing. There’s a small dark bottle beside him on the desk—like a pill bottle, I think randomly—and he closes his hand around it.
“To ignore you more pointedly, you said. You said you liked that.”
His gaze flickers. “I can’t do this, Bry.”
I slam the box down on his desk. I hope the cake leaks out and ruins all his papers. “Fine. It’s over between us.”
His lips twitch, and I think he’ll laugh.
But he doesn’t. For a second, his eyes lift, meeting mine, and I’m rooted to the spot at the pain I see in them.
By the time I gather my wits and think of something—anything—to say, he looks away. “It was a kiss, not a fuck, Bry. Not like you had with Riddick. You should go back to him.”
I’m pretty sure I’m crying because the tears tickle my cheeks, but I feel nothing but fury. “Screw you. You don’t get to tell me who to be with. You know nothing about me, Ryan Prince Dawson. If you don’t want me, I will leave you in peace. There are more men in the sea. Fish, whatever.”
“Good,” he says, but his voice isn’t entirely steady.
And I’m not done yet.
“You swore.” I point at him with a pink fingernail. “You swore on your mother’s life you weren’t teasing me, that inviting me to your office the day you kissed me wasn’t a trap.”
“My mother’s dead,” he says quietly.
“Oh, I see.”
Turning on my heel, I march outside, wobbling a little on my super high heels and feeling like a fool.
It’s not until I’ve reached my own office that the real meaning of his words penetrates the fog of anger.
His mother’s dead.
Shit.
I sit down heavily in my chair and put my hands over my face. Breathe in, breathe out.
There it is: a glimpse behind his walls.
I wonder how his mother’s death has shaped the way he thinks. The way he acts. If mine died… it would shatter me.
But what does it change if he doesn’t want me? And why does his rejection hurt so much when I was sure until now I felt nothing for him?
Chapter Seventeen
Pussy Fudge Cake
Riddick
“There you are, man.” Jethro ambles into the dimly lit bar, shrugging off his jacket and taking the stool next to mine. He catches the bartender’s eye and points at my beer, then folds his arms on the bar and turns a level look on me. “Okay now. I’m here. Spill.”
I nod, fighting the warmth in my chest just because my cousin turned up. Not many people I can rely on these days. Or ever. Jet is solid, always has been, despite the nightmare of his past.
But I don’t say anything yet. I turn my bottle round and round. It’s my fifth—or sixth one? At some point I lost count. I know this isn’t a solution. I know I’m just putting off the inevitable shitstorm.
