It comes out bright and brittle, a sound with sharp edges, the kind of laugh that convinces absolutely no one, but it gives us both an out.
“Well.” I step back, matching his distance, rapidly rebuilding my walls brick by brick. “That’s embarrassing.” I hook a thumb toward the bar, forcing a grin that feels like it might crack my face in two.I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t fucking cry.“Shall we blame the cheap beer?”
“Josie—”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” I’m already moving away, retreating before he can see the damage, before my eyes can betray me. My voice stays light even as an ugly ache settles deep in my chest. “Too much excitement, too much alcohol. We got caught up in the moment. It happens.”
“That’s not?—”
“I should get back inside. Mingle. Celebrate.” I keep that damn smile that feels like broken glass on my face, determined not to let him see how deeply this hurts. “Congratulations on the win, Stone. Really. You should be proud.”
I willnotcry over this man. Not tonight. Not freaking ever.
I don’t wait for his response. I walk back inside, and rejoin the party, but the shame follows me all the same. I laugh at jokes I don’t hear, dance with some of the prospects who are young and eager for attention, drink another beer, and force myself to pretend my chest doesn’t feel like someone has reached in and strangled my heart.
Lesson learned, Bright. Lesson fucking learned.
Stone watches me for the rest of the night. I can feel his gaze tracking me through the crowd. It’s heavy and cool.
I don’t glance back. Don’t meet his gaze. Not even once.
He doesn’t deserve another piece of me.
By the time I leave, I’ve rebuilt every wall I let him knock down. Only this time, they’re reinforced with steel and spite and the bone-deep certainty that I’m done hoping for a relationship that’s never going to happen.
Stone wants me. I know he does.
But wanting isn’t the same as having. He could have had me. Easily. But damn if he’ll get more than friendly professionalism from me from now on.
Screw you, Stone.
One of the prospects drops me home, and I let myself into my empty small house.
“Alone once more,” I mutter to myself, and pour a glass of wine I don’t taste.
You came here for boring,I remind myself.Not to fall for a motorcycle club president who treats you like you’re nothing.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being his lawyer. Professional. Distant. Polite.
Tomorrow, I’ll pretend tonight never happened.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll eventually stop feeling like an idiot for wanting the one person I can’t have.
1
JOSIE
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
My coffee went cold three hours ago, but I drink it anyway. After all, cold coffee is still coffee and coffee is still caffeine, and caffeine is the only thing standing between me and passing out face-first on my keyboard at—I check my phone—9:47 PM on a Tuesday.
Glamorous life you’ve built, Bright.
My office is small, barely bigger than a closet, really, but it’s mine. The small office is a converted storefront at the nice end of Main Street, tucked between a boutique that sells overpriced candles and flowers, and an art gallery that caters to the country club crowd.
It’s the part of town where the moneyed folks do their shopping, which means it’s also where I need to be to ensure those same people will hire me. I’m not above admitting I need to eat, and rich clients have a tendency to pay their bills on time.
My name sits on the door in sensible gold lettering,Josephine Bright, Attorney at Law. Inside, I’ve made the space my own. Warm butterscotch walls lined with overstuffed bookshelves, the legal tomes’ spines are cracked from use. A leather sofa sits at the front of the building, soft enough to sink into, scattered with throw pillows I picked up from a craft fair last fall. My desk is antique mahogany, scarred and beautiful, covered in papers and sticky notes and a plant I keep forgetting to water but which refuses to die. A worn Persian rug anchors the room, and the lamp on my desk casts everything in a warm amber glow.
