I’ve done everything I can to change her mind, and now I’m back to a life of craving her and knowing I’ll never have her again. And unlike last time, when I’d only had a sip of her skin, trying to recover from the weeks I’ve spent surrounded by her in every sense of the word is going to be impossible.
There won’t be a single moment I’m around her where I won’t be utterly devastated by her presence, paralyzed by the curve of her neck, and envious of every breeze that gets to thread itself through the curls I love so much.
Which is why I had to call Seb this morning and agree to oversee the Cerros Resort build.
Hopefully two years out of New Haven will be enough time to learnto live without her. Sadly, that’s the best I can hope for, because there is no getting over Sloane for me. I knew it the moment she walked back into my life, connected to my best friend by heart and hand, and the only thing I wanted to do, besides punch a fucking wall, was kiss her.
So this is my punishment for coveting an angel, for daring to want an ounce of her goodness for myself: being exiled to my own private hell where I’ll try, and fail, to forget what it was like to watch my dream slip through my fingers.
I toss back the last of the vodka and promise myself never to drink again. Admitting to being reckless and selfish like my father is one thing, but developing an alcohol addiction is something completely different. The bottle makes a hollow clinking sound when I set it back on the coffee table, and the strongest wave of shame ripples through me as my doorbell rings.
Pushing out a breath through my nose, I drag myself out of my seat and head toward the door. The last thing I want right now is company, but I’m thankful for a reason to get out of the seat I’ve been slumped in for hours. Once I get rid of whatever uninvited guest is at my door, I’ll throw that damn bottle away, take a long shower, and start preparing for California and a life without…
“Sloane?”
“Where have you been?” She pushes past me, barging into my place with a determined look on her face. “I’ve been calling and texting you, and you never answered.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Both of her hands are on her hips as she makes her way into my living room. I follow her, watching as she catalogs the changes I’ve made over the last six years, noting every single difference from when Eric lived here.
Of all the things I expect to feel when I look at her standing in my home for the first time in years—golden skin scrubbed clean of any makeup shemight have worn today, black curls pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head, hazel eyes swimming with anxious concern—bitter is not one of them.
But that’s exactly what I am.
Bitter because seeing her here reminds me of the conversation we had at Cerros when she said this place would always make her think of Eric. I hate myself for allowing my mind to linger, for even a second, on how the specter of his ghost robbed me of nights with her in my bed. For resenting her loyalty to him in death. For being angry with her for deciding that today of all days was the right time to prioritize me over his memory.
My chest tightens as jealousy, fueled by the sparkle of Eric’s ring on her finger and the memory of her asking me to leave last night, courses through my veins.
Jealous. Over her dead husband who, let’s not forget, was also your best friend? That’s low, Dom.It is low, even for me, but it’s also a reminder of how completely wrong I am for her no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.
“Is that a bottle of vodka?”
She looks mildly terrified at the presence of alcohol in my home, and I hold back a laugh as I sit down. I wonder what she would think if I told her where I got it from. If it would help her realize sending me away last night was the right choice because I have too much of my father in me to be any good for her. Too much of his bitterness, too much of his chaos, too much of his selfishness.
“Itwas.”
Even as resentment pounds in my veins, I can’t get over how good it is to see her. To watch her move around my space, leaving her scent in the air as she walks over to the couch and takes the seat closest to the armchair I’m sitting in.
“But you don’t drink, Dominic.”
“Things change.”
Concern shines in her eyes, and it pisses me off. I don’t want her concern, not after I tore my heart out and put it in her hand, only for her to hand it back to me. Still pounding, still gushing blood with every beat.
“I know you’re probably upset about last night, but I didn’t think—” Her eyes bounce between me and the bottle. “Did you drink thatentirething by yourself?”
I stare at her, keeping my expression blank. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” She looks stunned by the question. “Of course it matters.”
“Why?”
The fingers on her right hand find the rings on her left and start to spin them around. Sloane doesn’t have many nervous habits, but this is definitely one, and I’ve only seen her do it in moments of extreme distress.
“Because you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls, and I didn’t expect to come here and find you drunk. I mean, why would you…”
I lift a brow. “Drink an entire bottle of vodka?”
