This isn’t some heartfelt, make-it-all-better present. It’s not a peace offering or an olive branch.
It’s a breakup package.
A clear-out. Of me.
Unfolding it further makes a note flutter to the ground. I grab it up.
Mr. Quinn requested these items be returned to you.
Signed with formal detachment by his housekeeper.
Another piece of fabric spills onto my bed.
My shawl! From that crazy night at the hotel when I swiped Connor’s car keys. More damning evidence that we were doomed from the start.
“What the actual hell. . .”I hiss, my voice thick with unshed tears.
He hung on to this scrap of lace since that night without mentioning it? Just to suddenly dump it on my doorstep out of spite?
I crumple the note, tears stinging. The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d stabbed me in the heart. And he didn’t even deliver it himself.
Even when we’re done, he’s still finding ways to hurt me.
FORTY-THREE
Connor
I flag the bartender for another Macallan, barely denting the first.
What the hell am I doing here? Chasing the good old days before everything went to shit?
I haven’t been back here since Lexi’s little hustle. Damn, it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.
My doc’s been on my case about keeping the stress levels low, but after that disaster of a dinner party at Killian’s last week, even the small stuff’s enough to set me off.
If I could have sat in an ice bath all fucking day, I would have. Only, that would have been the end of me, so I hit the streets instead. But I had to stop because my symptoms flared up and that really got to me. I reached out to my new doctor right away. The break did nothing for me. My irritation levels have been sky-high.
Case in point, the blond bombshell easing onto the stool next to mine. I vaguely remember feeding her some slick lines on the same night Lexi and I found our way into each other’s arms in those bathrooms.
Now I’ve got zero patience for flirtation.
“Hey, Connor,” she purrs, flashing a smile that I guess is meant to knock me dead. “Feels like forever since I’ve seen you. You holding up okay after things ended with Willow?” Her hand finds my arm, making itself at home. “I was so sorry to hear about you two.”
It hits me then that she’s sitting in the same stool where Lexi sat that night—where she sized me up and plotted how she could steal my keys. I can still see it crystal clear in my mind thanks to the damn security footage.
Maybe that’s what drags me back here—chasing after some semblance of control. To scrub away her memory and spill out this pent-up rage into something, someone forgettable. To erase that night and start from scratch.
I muster the most unenthusiastic hello in history, keeping it clipped.
On any other night, I might’ve leaned into the distraction. But tonight, I’m my own enemy.
No women for me right now. Not even for a quick fuck. Too much drama, too much baggage.
Killian was right. I should have gone to Ireland alone. Maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling like this.
Even my apartment is still haunted with remnants of Lexi. I had to physically box up stuff she had left and get my housekeeper to send it to her, but I swear I can still hear her laugh, smell her perfume . . . she’s everywhere—the bed, the bath, the goddamn couch. Might just move at this point.
“I’ll join you for a drink,” the blond decides, commandeering my Macallan and immediately regretting it, pretending not to grimace as she takes a sip.
