taking the momentary distraction as a godsend. “Good night, Mr. Miles.”
“Anderson,” he whispers.
I close the door in his face and click the lock. I fall against the back of it and close my eyes. I’m panting, and my body is still reeling from the feeling of him so close.
My phone beeps with a text.
Come on?
I’m leaving tomorrow.
His words repeat in my mind.
“We’d be so fucking hot together.”
I put the chain on, and I peek through the peephole to see him roll his eyes and shake his head.
He’s pissed off.
He knew he nearly had me.
Oh crap . . . that was close. Another text beeps through.
Claire, come on.
You’re killing me here.
There are no prizes for being a good girl.
You only live once.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter.
I turn my phone on silent, put it on the charger, and storm into the bathroom, and then I lock that door too. I need to get some distance between me and him.
God, wake up, Claire.
The very last thing I’m about to do is have sex with that soul-sucking bastard. And besides, I wouldn’t even know what to do with him. I’m positive the kind of sex that I’ve had wouldn’t be the same type of sex that he has.
I’m into tender loving care, and he’s probably a world-renowned anal master.
I shiver at the thought of appearing vulnerable and sexually inexperienced to him.
I imagine him guiding me as to how he likes it, and my blood boils.
No way in hell am I giving him one inch of power over me.
“That’s it. No more,” I whisper angrily. “Cold shower.” I turn the water on with force. “That man is the devil.”
I sit and stare into space in the truth circle.
One by one we are being asked a question about ourselves that only we would know. Something that apparently burns a hole in our existence.
“Tell me, Ariana, what is the one thing that makes you angry?” Elouise asks.
Ariana frowns as she contemplates her answer, and we sit in silence as we wait. All of our questions are different, based on our psychological testing. Elouise, the psychologist who is running this part of the workshop, has tailored the session to what we did yesterday morning. We’ve broken up into small groups of fifteen and are sitting and listening to everyone in our group.
Once again, I zone out into space.
I’m flat today.
Down on myself, for many reasons.
I hate that I’m physically attracted to someone I don’t like. I hate that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I wanted him, and, most of all, I hate that the opportunity to have a wild and carefree night with him is gone. He’s gone back to New York now.
Tristan fucking Miles.
The reason I haven’t slept, the reason I had to get myself off while watching YouPorn last night.
And the reason I feel so fucking sexless today that I just want to cry.
It was nice being hit on . . . being made to feel desirable.
To feel like a woman again.
And it’s not him; it’s not about him. It’s what he represents.
A carefree time in my life that’s gone.
I’ve been thinking about it . . . long and hard—all night, actually. And if there was ever a man whom I should have slept with as a get-back-into-the-dating-game kind of thing, it should have been Tristan Miles.
He is uncomplicated and unavailable, the kind of man you have thoughtless sex with. I was physically attracted to him, and yet there was absolutely no chance that I could have developed feelings for him. He’s not the kind of man I could ever fall in love with.
It was the perfect opportunity . . . and I let it go.
Fucking great.
“Claire?” a voice asks.
I look up, dazed. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.
“Let’s talk about the hardest thing in your life,” Elouise says.
I frown.
“What is the hardest thing that you have had to do?”
I stare at her for a moment. “Little League.”
Elouise’s face falls, and everyone listens intently.
“Explain that to me.”
“Um.” I take a nervous, deep breath. “My husband . . . um . . .” I pause midsentence.
“Start at the beginning.” Elouise smiles.
“Five years ago, my husband was riding a bike early one morning.” I smile as I remember Wade in his full riding kit. “He was training for a triathlon.” I pause.
“Go on.”
“He was . . . hit by a drunk driver at five fifty-two a.m.”
Everyone watches me.
“He died at the scene. He was thirty-six.” I twist my fingers together on my lap. “And