“No, that wasn’t—I just meant that everything happened so fast, I’m only just processing it all now.”
It was just meant to be a fun little fling. An escape.
How had he so completely weaved his way into my every thought?
“Before Jackson, my biggest issues were the latest shipping error, arguing with that cocky shit from Liquor Kings about stock orders, and price gauging. Now, I can’t stop thinking about him. Wondering what he’s doing. Wanting to see him, hear his voice.”
“You love him.” She said it so matter-of-factly. With the same conviction Jackson had the other night.
I thought about everything that Jackson had done for me without asking for something in return. Even when I was holding back, he was patient, giving me space or time or a distraction. Even on our first night together, when we were little more than strangers, he had made sure I was comfortable every step of the way, always checking I was ok before he kissed me, touched me.
“I do.”
There was no denying it. My biggest regret was not telling Jackson when I’d had the chance. Now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to.
The now familiar ache spread through my chest, the weight of my attachment making itself a home within me. He had burrowed his way into my heart, and honestly, I wanted him there.
“Then why break up?”
“Because I’m an idiot, remember?” At her unimpressed look, I recanted. “You saw me that day. I was a mess. We talked about the interview, and then he said he loved me, and I just. Freaked out. Stopped listening. I got defensive and said some really stupid things just to hurt him.”
“Call him. I’m sure he feels the same way.”
I watched as Tiff filled a half dozen muffin trays with the gloriously chocolatey batter. “What if he doesn’t? I want to apologize, but I’m not sure he’d even want to hear from me again.”
Which was the hardest part. Because as much as I loved Tiff, she wasn’t the person I most wanted to talk to about this. The only person I wanted to talk to, the one person whose opinion I wanted on all this, was him.
She popped the tray into the oven and leaned her hip on the counter. “Then you move on.”
This was a card Tiff usually played with her clients. Played devil’s advocate to see what side of the fence you fell on. She said it was the best way to uncover your innate desires. And it worked.
The very idea of moving on caused my heart to cry out like a petulant child throwing a tantrum in a grocery store aisle.
I didn’t want to move on.
I wanted to be with him.
Damnit.
Why did he have to go and be all funny and charming and utterly frustrating to the point where he had buried himself in my heart and found a home there?
Why did I have to be so utterly pigheaded not to see what was important?
The problem from the beginning was that I’d been trying to avoid all this nasty feelings business.
It had felt like the safest option at the time. An arrangement, built purely on sex, that wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt me.
And then along came this amazing, caring man to ruin it all.
Except he hadn’t been the one to ruin it.
While we’d been together, I never told him what I was feeling, that I was scared and fragile and why. I had just pretended I was ok, that I could deal with this on my own, and I thought I’d just figure it out in time.
I couldn’t forget the look on Jackson’s face when he said those three little words and I didn’t say them back. God, I was such an asshole. If only I’d told him sooner, maybe I could have saved us both some heartache.
But I’d been selfish. And now I was miserable.
The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt him.
