already told you what happened. I can explain more if—”
“Empty explanations mean nothing. The damage was done the minute you thought it was okay to do it in the first place.”
“Christ, I fucked up.” He pounds a fist on the railing.
“Yeah. You used me.”
“You’re right. I did. I had a split second to make a decision about how to get that bastard to confess what he had on you. The choice was boys-will-be-boys versus making demands I knew he’d balk at. I chose the first. It was wrong. I fucked up in the worst imaginable way by doing so. I can’t change what I did, and I know I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I knew for a fact I could keep you safe. That I could get him to tell me whatever it is he has on you so you never had to worry about it again. So keep raking me over the fucking coals if it makes you feel better, Vaughn. Keep making me pay whatever price it is you feel I need to pay. Or just keep pushing me away because it’s easier to do that than to realize that you and I are fucking incredible together. Your choice.”
I stare at him—his words hit to the very core of everything I feel, and yet nowhere in there did he mention how his actions were beneficial to his client. Nowhere in there did he say he put me in more jeopardy than I already was. Nowhere did he explain how offering my body to the senator was going to win him whatever erroneous blackmail items he supposedly had on me.
The words poor baby ghost through my mind but don’t pass over my lips, because this, him, us, is just all too much. It hurts to look at him. To still want him. To still love him.
To finally want something I can’t have.
To maybe believe him.
“Excuse me.” I avert my eyes. “Archer must be looking for me.”
I escape without saying more, uncertain how I’m supposed to feel and unwilling to forgive.
And with my heart a lot worse for the wear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vaughn
“Stop staring at him.” The warmth of Archer’s voice hits my ears, and I know he’s right, but I argue with him anyway.
“I’m not watching anybody.”
“Right. Your neck is just permanently angled twenty degrees to the right where one Ryker Lockhart happens to be seated.” He takes a sip of the merlot in his hand and emits a low hum in appreciation. “Does he ever not look good?”
“You’re not helping here,” I mutter under my breath as some of the others assigned to our ten-person table glance our way, obviously irritated that we’re talking when the emcee is doing her opening spiel.
“Is he good in bed? I bet you he’s fabulous. All rough and demanding and . . . durable.”
“Durable?” I choke out and try not to spray my sip of red wine all over the expensive white linen tablecloth.
“Made you laugh, didn’t I?”
I turn to look at him for the first time since the program started and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Yes, you did. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive and . . . my friend.”
“I couldn’t let you be the hot mess you were about to become when you came back from the balcony.” He pats my leg beneath the table. “I saved you just in the nick of time.”
And he did. He whisked me to the hallway, grabbed both of my hands in his, and told me that the best way to show Ryker he doesn’t matter is to not give him the time of day.
“Anything that’s worth fighting for hurts sometimes, Vaughn.”
I narrow my brows. “Who said he’s worth fighting for?”
“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”
We’re interrupted as the first course is served, and just in time, because I was about to fight Archer to the death to prove there was nothing written on my face.
Then why do I keep looking his way? Why do I keep making mental arguments in my head for when Archer brings the topic back up?
Small talk ensues with those around us who are trying to figure out if Archer and I are a couple or not. But I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t wander to Ryker’s table more often than not.
Not just to stare at Ryker, though, but also to glare daggers at his date.
“Who is she?” I murmur without mentioning who I’m referring to.
“Nobody