soulless shark eyes. Only the sound of his ragged breathing lets me know I didn’t just imagine his kiss.
“Here’s the thing, princess,” he says quietly. “When your mother walks out on you? She takes most of the things you know with her. And you don’t trust the rest.”
I hesitate, letting that sink in. I want to make sure I fully understand his point before I let him have it.
Don’t think I’m a monster. I get what he’s saying. Honestly, I do. But I am so sick of his invisible mother and her horrible claw marks all over this man. I’m so sick of her keeping him from me and him refusing to fight the good fight. He doesn’t have to let his past ruin our future.
If only he would make that choice.
“Here’s the thing, Damon,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “You’re the smartest man I know. Smart enough to know that I’m the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to you. Smart enough not to let your insecurities drive me away. And I’m smart enough to give you some time to see if you can get past your bullshit. There’s going to come a moment, probably sooner rather than later, when you start to miss me and your fear of losing me is a million time worse than your fear of admitting you love me. So if and when you get your act together, I’ll be waiting for my abject apology. And I mean abject. You know where to find me. Just don’t take too long. I only have so much patience.”
I turn and walk out, wiping the lipstick off my mouth so I can return to my party, and let the door bang shut on his stricken expression.
19
Damon
It turns out that frenzied workouts and/or jogging laps around the better part of Central Park don’t burn enough energy to clear Carly out of my mind. Not even for two consecutive seconds. Other things that don’t work, in no particular order? Drinking. Working. Reading. Watching TV. Staring at ceilings or walls. Sleeping.
She’s there. She’s always there.
And yet she’s not here, goddammit.
Evidently, I’ve lost all ability to function without her. The only thing left is misery. By Thursday, I’m so sick of myself, my churning thoughts and my sulking that it’s all I can do to look at my reflection in the mirror after my shower.
Swear to God, I hate that guy. I want to punch him in his stupid fucking face.
Under normal circumstances, the idea of skipping a day of work strikes me as inconceivable. Without my epic and indispensable presence, the New York real estate market—hell, let’s call it the global real estate market—will immediately collapse, turn to dust and blow away on a stiff breeze, sending economies everywhere into a major depression. You’d think so, anyway, based on my lifelong work ethic.
But now? Fuck work. Fuck the office. Fuck everything.
“Enjoy yourself,” my executive assistant says when I call to tell her that I’m going to the Hamptons and therefore won’t be in the office today. “You’ve earned it.”
But there’s no mistaking the relief in her tone when she hears that I won’t be blessing her with my sparkling personality today.
So I hit the road and head out to my family home, thinking that the long drive to the beach may help clear my head. Unfortunately, it turns out that long drives to the beach belong on my list of things that don’t help clear my head.
I’m in love with you, Damon.
I get there by late morning and tell the startled staff to ignore me. Settle in the library, where my new Baroque paintings don’t exactly blend with the Picasso sketches. Make myself a couple of dirty martinis and wonder whether my ability to ruin my own life is a talent other people share or my own unique gift. I’m giving some serious thought to skipping the glass on the next few rounds and just drinking straight from the pitcher when I hear unwelcome footsteps and voices in the hallway.
“He’s probably in here.” The door swings open and Griffin’s head appears. He surveys the scene, spotting me on the sofa. “Yeah, he’s in here.”
Before I have time to react, he and Ryker come inside and hit me with twin pallbearer faces.
“Fuck,” I say, welcoming this intrusion the way five-star hotels welcome bedbug infestations.
“Nice to see you too,” Ryker says. “We came to cheer you up, dickhead.”
“No, we didn’t,” Griffin says, scowling. “This is an intervention. I don’t do cheer. I