I am outside, a chilly breeze lifting my hair, and without hesitation, I start walking toward the Four Seasons, punching in Shane’s number as I do. It rings once and goes to voice mail, and in the short two-block walk, I try twice more, with no success. Arriving at the entrance of the hotel, I wave at Tai as he helps another visitor, and enter the lobby to make a beeline for the elevators.
Once inside, I key in the security code, and watch the floors tick by, certain this knot in my belly will disappear when I see Shane. So much so that I am out of the car the minute the doors open, and double-stepping for his door. Once I’m there, I resist the urge to just go in, forcing myself to punch the doorbell. Seconds tick by and he doesn’t answer, and I finally dig out the key he’d given me. I’m reaching for the lock when the door opens and I come face-to-face with a stunning brunette.
“Oh,” she says. “Hello.” Her lips curve in a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “He’s all yours.” She steps around me and starts walking.
My stomach rolls, at the same moment Shane appears in the doorway, his Burberry tie I’d put so much meaning behind gone, along with his jacket. “Emily,” he says, and before he can utter a lie I don’t want to remember him by, I try to turn away.
He catches my arm, dragging me to him, and my hand flattens on his chest, but he doesn’t say anything and he smells like perfume. No. He smells like her. “Let go of me,” I say, my voice trembling with the pain I swore no man would cause me again.
Several beats pass and if I wanted some sort of denial from him, I don’t get it. He releases me, and every warm spot this man ever created in me turns icy. I take a step backward, swallowing hard, and turning away. Somehow, my feet are moving, while the cold, hard truth is slowly, but precisely, seeping in and carving out a piece of my heart. This isn’t even a betrayal. He’d cut ties with me last night and I’d simply chosen not to believe it to be true.
Reaching the end of the hall that leads to the elevator, I already know he’s not following me, but some part of me needs that confirmation. Inhaling, I rotate to glance down the path I’ve just traveled to find Shane lingering in his doorway, now in profile, his hand on the jamb, his head tilted forward and low. Tormented, it seems, but I don’t pretend to know what he’s feeling. I don’t pretend to know him at all. I leave then, turning the corner and moments later, stepping into the elevator, I have two thoughts. I’m still clutching the folder I never gave him against my chest, and I must have been falling in love with him to hurt this badly.
I step out of the Four Seasons and onto the street to start the six-block walk to my apartment, shoving aside the tears threatening to erupt. I will not cry. I will not be defined by the actions of one man. And the very idea that if Shane had declared that woman’s presence in his home an innocent encounter, I’d have believed him—despite her scent clinging to his clothes—infuriates me. I will not become the fool my mother was with my stepfather, with Shane or any other man.
A half block later, I have found a cold, gray spot in my mind and taken residence there, not overthinking my relationship with Shane, when I so easily could. Instead, I occupy my mind by reading store names, never letting myself go to places that might test my emotions. By block four there is a prickling sensation on my neck, a sense of being watched I do not like. It quickens my pace, reminding me of more than Randy. It reminds me of why I’m in Denver, and it is with relief that I reach my apartment and lock myself inside.
Leaning on the door, I walk to the kitchen, and set the folder on the counter. I grab my purse and the new disposable phone inside, punching in Rick’s number. He doesn’t answer, of course. He never answers. “I think I’m in trouble,” I say. “I need help. You have to call me back.” I press end and then redial his number, with the same result. I try again and