He won’t let me help clean up (again) so I sit at the counter and watch him, which is no hardship. Drying his hands on a towel, the kitchen spotless, he looks at me. “Can we talk?”
I rear back. That’s never a good thing to hear. “We’ve been talking.”
His look is steady and astute.
“Fine. Sure.” I slide off the stool then pause. I’m still in my pajamas. “Maybe I should get dressed?”
“Nah, you’re good. The pajamas are cute, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I trudge over to the couch, settle into a corner, and pick up a cushion to hug. “Okay, what’s on your mind, big guy?”
His lips twitch, but the gravity in his eyes makes my stomach clench. He sits at the other end of the couch, leaning back with one arm along the back. “What happened after Vegas?” he asks quietly, eyes fastened on my face. “Why did you stop communicating with me?”
I swallow, then pull my lower lip between my teeth. “I told you. I was busy. I’m sorry.”
He moves his head side to side, lips pursed. “Come on. You couldn’t be that busy. Sending a text takes, like thirty seconds.”
“I was literallythat busy!” I set my hand on the back of my head and grip my hair. “My life went crazy.” I pause. “It wasn’t just sending a text. It was the whole…” I gesture in a back-and-forth movement between us. “You know.”
He shakes his head again. “No. I don’t know.”
“Us. I mean, we didn’t have a relationship exactly, but you… us… was taking up a lot of space in my head, and I just couldn’t deal.”
“We had a one-night stand.” His face tightens. “We fucked. That’s what it was for you?”
My throat seizes and knots. Is that not what it was for him? Mr.Have fun, fuck hard, play harder? I search for the right words.Finally, I say in a brittle voice, “It had to be.”
He sets his hand over his mouth and rubs. “Okay.” He meets my eyes. “You could have just told me that.”
Heat travels in a slow wave from my chest up into my face. “You’re right,” I squeak out. “I’m sorry.”
How do I explain why I didn’t just tell him not to contact me anymore? I don’t even understand it myself. I couldn’t do it… because Iwantedto hear from him. I didn’t want to end things. But I had to. I had this amazing opportunity. All my dreams were coming true. Also, the pressure on me was massive. There were so many people I couldn’t let down. I couldn’t let myself be distracted by a handsome, charming hockey player, the man I kept thinking about, trying to figure out how to be with, and couldn’t. I wanted to see him again so much. For the last eleven months, I woke up nearly every day aching to see him, to talk to him. So many times I had to talk myself out of ditching everything that was expected of me and jump on a plane to Hoboken. But that would have been irresponsible. Undisciplined. I had to stay with my plan.
Also, I was a coward.
“Okay.” He gives a clipped nod. “I understand.” He stands.
Is he leaving? I clasp the pillow tighter, watching him go pick up his jacket. He pulls out a knit cap and tugs it down, chestnut hair curling around the bottom, then pushes his arms into the sleeves. He looks back at me as he zips up the jacket.
Moisture threatens my eyes and my throat squeezes.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly. “I hope you can get back to work and back to normal soon.”
I lift my chin, then lower it. The fist around my windpipe prevents me from speaking.
Then he surprises me by stepping closer to me, bending, and kissing my forehead.
Goddammit.
I close my stinging eyes.
“Bye, Nikki. Take care, teddy bear.”
I hear the door close and still don’t open my eyes. Tears squeeze out and I choke back a sob.
No. I can’t cry again. I can’t break down again.
He came to make sure I was okay, and I wasn’t even very nice to him. I’m such a bitch.
