I open my mouth but the words won’t come out. They’re stuck in my throat.
“Look at me…” he says, grasping my jaw, bending just enough to put himself on the same level as me. His icy blue eyes glisten, like diamonds in velvet.
So pure, so bright. So perfect.
But everything around me is breaking. Like glass, the pieces cut me harder, deeper than they should because I realize at this moment, the truth is so much worse than I thought it was.
I think I’m falling in love with Sloane Pierce. And I think I’m going to fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Jabberwocky," I say, my throat getting tight. I watch the light shift from his eyes. It’s a second. Barely a flash, but that switch flips.
He drops his hands from my face, and I hate it. I hate how cold my skin feels without his warm touch.
He steps back cooly, as if I’ve just asked him if he’d like an extra shot of espresso.
My heart races like a freight train, running off the tracks. He stands there, not saying a word, holding my gaze.
He just waits. For me.
He always waits for me, and that only makes it hurt more.
I get up, my legs a little wobbly as I approach him. His dark gaze drifts to mine as he stands there poised like a statue.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I just—”
“There’s no need to apologize, Oliver," he says softly. “I am the one who should apologize.”
He doesn’t touch me, but I wish he would.
God, I wish he would.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” It’s the way he says the words so effortlessly, so naturally, that breaks me.
Because truly, I believe him. Sloane might be an asshole sometimes, but he’s not a bad man. My feelingsmatterto him.
“Sloane, I—” My phone buzzes in my pocket and there is a knock on the door.
“Sloane, you in there? I have projections for Phantom for a potential release, but I have some questions—”
It’s Ericson. Shit.
“Yes, give me a moment, I’m just going over Oliver’s review,” he calls out, the tone completely normal. Unaffected.
It’s mind boggling, and I don’t know if it means he’s unaffected by what happened, or me, or—
“You should talk to Ericson," I say, reaching for my backpack.
“Not until I am done with you," he says, holding my gaze.
“Sloane…”
“We do not have to have dinner. You do nothaveto come over, we can just—”
I wrap my arms around him and hold on for dear life. This man is a life raft, and I am a drowning sailor.
I breathe in his woodsy-leather scent, and let out a heavy sigh.
I know what Ishoulddo, but I also know what I want more than anything, and that’s Sloane. And suddenly, I know exactly what I need to do.
