“Me. I am, I guess…” Giving me a flat smile, he gives me a shrug. “Good one, Mills—you got me.”
“So you can tease me and make fun of me, but I’m not allowed to do it back,” Feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face for some stupid reason, I take an angry step forward. “Is that it?”
“I didn’tchooseher,” he tells me quietly, the bright blue of his eyes dark with temper. “I was just stupid enough to believe her—we both were.”
Paige.
He’s talking about Paige.
Before I can ask him what he’s talking about, Dean toggles the switch next to the door, instantly frosting the glass and blocking the bathroom from view before he shuts it in my face.
TWENTY-FOUR
What am I doing?
Seriously—what the actual fuck am I doing?
Less than eight hours in and I’ve already got diarrhea of the mouth. Every time I open it, shit falls out.
Dumb, stupid shit.
The same dumb, stupid shit I’ve been swallowing for years now.
I’m not talking about the dirty talk. That’s par for the course where Millie and I are concerned. She’ll never pass up an opportunity to remind me what a conceited, arrogant,averagely intelligentasshole I am, and I’ll never pass up an opportunity to remind her that she’s not as cool andunflappable as she pretends to be. That no matter what she thinks of meor how much she hates me, there’s still a part of her that wants me. A part of her that listens to all the filthy fucking words I whisper in her ear and wishes they were true.
So, no—I’m not talking about the raunchy shit I’ve been torturing her with all day. I’m talking about theothershit. The shit about Paige. About what happened that night in the Hamptons. The how and why I became her cousin’s on-again-off-again fuck buddy and sometimes dinner date. Not the bullshit reason I gave her Friday night. That I keep letting Paige reel me back in because being seen with her is good for my business.
Therealreason.
Sayingthatshit out loud would be the end to everything. I might as well walk myself into traffic. Going home isn’t an option—her father made that pretty fucking clear. If I turn back up in New York without his daughter, I have not one, single doubt that Preston Blackwell will dismantle my life, brick by brick. Everything I’ve built. Everything I’ve worked for.
Gone.
So get it the fuck together, asshole. Keep your distance and your mouth shut. You’ve been swallowing shit around Millie for the last two years—you can keep doing it for another two weeks.
Yeah.
I can.
But here’s the problem. Why I’m hiding in this goddamned bathroom from a hundred and twenty pound blonde like she’s the freakin’ boogeyman.
I don’t want to do either of those things.
I want to tell her everything and I sure as hell don’t want to stay away from her.
Which means, it’s only a matter of time before I do that otherotherthing I always seem to do when it comes to Millie Blackwell.
I’m going to fuck it all up.
Out of the shower, I scrub myself dry with a thick,white towel before pulling on one of the plush bathrobes I found hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I’m not a robe guy but putting my dirty clothes back on isn’t an option, and neither is walking around naked. Tying the belt around my waist, I tell myself to quit being a pussy. That Millie is probably as tired and in desperate need of a shower as I was and that the longer I stand here and stare at the door, the harder it’s going to be to open it so unless I plan on spending the next two weeks drinking sink water and eating hotel soap, I’m going to have to grow a pair and open the goddamned door.
Right.
Opening the door, I step out of the bathroom to find the rest of the bungalow empty. No sign of Millie.
The fuck?
Suddenly sure I reallydidfuck it up and that she’s halfway back to her plane and on the phone with her pilot, scheduling her flight home by now, I reach for my cell, intent on—what, exactly?
