Brett’s brows lifted and the heat in his eyes cooled. “Really? Is this where we’re at now?”
“I’m married,” I reminded him. “Hugging each other isn’t appropriate.”
“What about the women he’s tapped all over the tabloids? That’s okay?”
“Come on,” I chided. “You know you can’t always believe what the press feeds you.”
His lips pursed. He shoved his hands back in his pockets. “You can believe what they say about how I feel about you.”
My stomach fluttered. “I think you believe it.”
Which made me a little sad. He didn’t know what Gideon and I had, because he’d never had it. I hoped he would someday. Brett wasn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t meant to be my guy.
Cursing under his breath, Brett turned and gestured toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
I was torn. I wanted privacy, too, but I also wanted to stay where there were witnesses who could reassure Gideon. In any case, we couldn’t exactly have a picnic in the Crossfire lobby.
Reluctantly, I fell into step beside him. “I had some sandwiches delivered a little bit ago. Figured that would give us more time to talk.”
Brett nodded grimly and held out his hand for the bag I was carrying.
I took him to Bryant Park, weaving beside him through the frenetic lunchtime crowds on the sidewalks. Taxis and private cars honked insistently at the streams of pedestrians too time-strapped to obey the signals. Heat shimmered off the asphalt, the sun high enough in the sky to spear down between the towering skyscrapers. An NYPD squad car hit its siren, the piercing robotic chirps and rumbles doing little to expedite the cruiser’s movement through the clogged street.
It was Manhattan on an average day and I loved it, but I could tell Brett was frustrated by the intricate dance required to get through the city. The shifting of shoulders and h*ps to let people pass, the quick inhales to squeeze by too-big bags or too-slow pedestrians, the swift-footedness needed to avoid the abrupt appearance of new bodies filing out of the many doorways that lined the sidewalks. Life as usual in NYC, but I remembered how overwhelming it felt when you weren’t used to so many people occupying relatively little space.
Entering the park just behind the library, we found an unoccupied bistro table and chairs in the shade near the carousel and settled in. Brett pulled out the sandwiches, chips, and bottled water I’d ordered, but neither of us started eating. I scouted our surroundings instead, aware that we could be photographed.
I’d considered that when I chose the location, but the alternative was a noisy, crowded restaurant. I was hyperconscious of my body language, trying to ensure that nothing could be misconstrued. The world at large could think we were friends. My husband would know, in every way I could show him, that Brett and I had actually said good-bye.
“You got the wrong impression in San Diego,” Brett said abruptly, his eyes shielded behind his shades. “Brittany isn’t a serious thing.”
“It’s none of my business, Brett.”
“I miss you. Sometimes, she reminds me of you.”
I winced, finding the comment anything but flattering. I lifted one hand and gestured helplessly. “I couldn’t go back to you, Brett. Not after Gideon.”
“You say that now.”
“He makes me feel like he can’t breathe without me. I couldn’t settle for less.” I didn’t need to say that Brett had never made me feel like that. He knew.
He stared at his steepled fingertips, then straightened abruptly and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. He pulled a folded photograph out and set it on the table in front of me.
“Look at that,” he said tightly, “and tell me we didn’t have something real.”
I picked up the photo and spread it open, frowning at the image. It was a candid shot of Brett and me, laughing together over something lost to memory. I recognized the interior of Pete’s in the background. There was a crowd of blurred faces around us.
“Where did you get this?” I asked. There’d been a time when I would’ve given anything to have an unposed photo with Brett, believing that such an insubstantial thing would give me some kind of proof that I was more than a piece of ass.
“Sam took that after one of our sets.”
I stiffened at the mention of Sam Yimara, abruptly reminded of the sex tape. I looked at Brett, my hands shaking so hard I had to put the photo down. “Do you know about . . . ?”
I couldn’t even finish the sentence. Turned out, it wasn’t necessary for me to.
Brett’s jaw tensed, his forehead and upper lip beaded with sweat from the summer heat. He nodded. “I’ve seen it.”
“Oh my God.” I recoiled from the table, my mind filled with all the possibilities of what was captured on video. I had been desperate to win Brett’s attention, with a complete lack of self-respect that shamed me now.