“Do you have to analyze it?” I asked, surprised by how vulnerable I felt, how much this was feeling like rejection. “Can’t we just have this?” I asked, waving at the desk as I moved around it, feeling like I suddenly needed physical distance between us.
It was a long moment before he looked at me.
When he did, he exhaled hard, and I knew the answer before he spoke.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think we can.”
Then he dropped down into his seat and hit the button to make the glass go clear again.
And me?
I wasthoroughlydismissed, wasn’t I?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Fuck this,” I said, storming through the penthouse, cheeks still wet, but eyes dry.
I’d always been good at turning hurt to anger. Because hurt was messy and useless. But anger? Anger could fuel you.
I certainly felt pumped up as I stomped through the common area, gathering up my books, notebooks, sweaters, and blankets.
I didn’t know what I was doing, just that I didn’t want my stuff around his place anymore, that I probably didn’t want to be there either.
Was there still a chance that my stocks could take off and I could get an early annulment? Sure.
But I wasn’t sure if it was worth it for me to wait that out in his apartment.
He clearly wasn’t sick enough of my mess to say or do anything about it anyway. If I wasn’t annoying him into a divorce, there was no reason for me to be in the penthouse at all anymore.
Once I had most of my crap piled in the guest room, I stormed back out, started a pot of coffee I knew I was going to need, then made my way downstairs to find John.
“Need to go somewhere, Mrs. Valentine?”
“Yeah. Wherever the closest… box store is.”
“Box store?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know, like… moving boxes. I need moving boxes.”
The way the area around his eyes went slack was the only indication he felt anything at all about the request.
“Of course,” he agreed, opening the back door for me.
Maybe he’d report back to Harrison.
I didn’t care.
Harrison would find out soon enough either way when he came home to an empty apartment.
“Dammit,” I grumbled, dropping an armful of boxes as I tried to get my ringing phone out of my pocket.
“Do you ever answer texts anymore?” Willa greeted me when I finally swiped to answer.
“Sorry. I’ve been running around,” I admitted, gathering up the boxes and sticking my face in front of the security monitor.
“How goesOperation:Annoy My Husband Into A Divorce?”
“Failing, mostly. He’s too patient.”
