“No. This doesn’t change anything.”
“No.” My voice was shaking. My whole body was shaking. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Pauline—”
“Buying my company. Inviting me to galas. Kissing me on dark streets.” I backed away, putting distance between us, needing space to breathe. “None of it matters. What we had is over. It’s been over.”
Jack stared at me. His breathing was uneven. Something wounded flickered behind his eyes.
Headlights blinked again.
The replacement car.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.
At my apartment, I got out without looking at him. Without saying goodnight. Or acknowledging what had just happened between us.
I walked inside and closed the door and leaned against it in the darkness.
I could still feel his mouth on mine. Still tasted him. Could still feel the ghost of his hands on my back, pulling me closer.
I pressed my fingers to my lips and tried to remember why I had stopped.
The reasons felt thin. Blurry. Like something I had memorized a long time ago and was starting to forget. The memory of his mouth felt real.
I went to bed and didn’t sleep, and when I closed my eyes, all I could see was blue.
CHAPTER 11
Jack
The whiskey burned going down.I signaled for another.
The bar was dim and mostly empty—the kind of place where people came to drink alone without anyone asking questions. No music. No sports on the television. Just amber bottles behind the counter and a bartender who had stopped making small talk an hour ago. He’d taken one look at my face when I walked in and decided silence was the smarter option.
I kept replaying it.
The kiss. Her mouth under mine—warm, soft, achingly familiar. The way she had melted into me for that one perfect moment.
Then the push.
I drained my glass. The bartender refilled it without being asked. We’d developed a silent understanding, him and me.
The stool beside me scraped against the floor.
“Hey man.” Simon Tucker settled onto the seat, flagged down the bartender with two fingers. “Didn’t have enough glasses at the gala?”
“Apparently not.”
He ordered bourbon. Neat. Simon and I had known each other long enough that showing up at the same bar didn’t require explanation. We moved in the same circles. Drank at the same places.
“You look sad for someone who just acquired California Times,” he said, accepting his glass from the bartender. “And I saw you with her, I thought tonight was supposed to be a victory lap.”
I turned my glass slowly on the bar top. Watched the whiskey catch the dim light and hold it. “It was supposed to be a lot of things.”
Simon was quiet for a moment. He knew about Pauline. We met in final year college right after my fall out with Pauline. Had watched me chase her back then with all the subtlety of a freight train. He’d been there when I tried to move on after she disappeared—and watched me fail spectacularly at both.
He didn’t need me to spell it out now.
