He’d done that to her. He felt something strange lodge in his chest as he looked at her. Something warm and possessive and unfamiliar. Something a little too primitive.
Something that wasn’t him.
He didn’t like it. He frowned and turned back to the door, which was being pounded again.
“I know you have someone in there with you,” Marta said.
At least that’s what he thought she said. Her accent was heavier and harder to understand when she was pissed.
Damn it, nothing to be done. John opened the door wide enough to stick his head out, but hopefully not wide enough for her to see into the living room. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry about tonight, but I’m afraid this isn’t really a good time.”
She looked livid and ready to knock down the door, so he made sure it was good and blocked with his foot. The last thing he wanted was a scene.
More of a scene.
“I’m sure it’s not.” She stood on her toes to try to peer over his shoulder, but he was too tall. “She’s in there with you, isn’t she? The woman you made out with at the bar? Who is she? Your girlfriend? Wife?”
“No!” Surprise made his response a little harsher than warranted. “Look,” he said, starting again in a calmer voice to try to defuse the already tense situation. “It’s just an old friend, okay? She arrived, uh, unexpectedly.”
Marta held his gaze, and behind the anger he could see the hurt. “And you thought nothing of kissing this ‘old friend’ and leaving with her when we had a date? How do you think that made me feel to show up tonight and have everyone talking about you and this woman putting on a show in the middle of the bar?”
John swore and dragged his hand through his probably sex-rumpled hair. He hadn’t meant this to happen. The thing with Marta wasn’t really even a thing, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her—or embarrass her. But neither could he explain. He could hardly tell her the truth: “Had to shut her up to prevent her from blowing my cover” wasn’t an option.
Nor did it explain this.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. He didn’t know how to explain. What had happened with Brittany was unexplainable—on so many different levels. Levels he didn’t even want to think about.
Marta looked him right in the eye. “Fuck your apologies, Joe, and fuck you, too.”
•••
Something inside Brittany made her want to stand and cheer at the woman’s parting words. It was no less than he deserved.
Why was Brittany surprised to hear that he’d had a date tonight? She should be more surprised that it wasn’ttwo.
Brittany should probably thank the woman for showing up when she did. If she’d been feeling even a twinge of uncertainty about the significance of what had just happened, it was gone.
For the better part of five years, Brittany had wondered what it would be like to have sex with John Donovan. Now she knew. It was every bit as amazing as she’d thought it would be. It was hands down the best sex she’d ever had in her life. No question. He was a master between the sheets—or on a ratty couch, for that matter.
But it wasn’t enough. Nor did it change anything. If this had happened in San Diego, she undoubtedly would have been dreaming of wedding gowns and picket fences.But whatever emotional connection she’d felt for him then was gone. And after the woman had arrived, it wasreallygone.
What they’d had was sex. And meaningless sex—even really hot, explosive, lights-out meaningless sex—was still meaningless.
Part of her had always wondered whether if they’d had sex all those years ago things might have been different. It was a silly question, of course, and impossible to answer. But this had helped her answer a related question. It didn’t make a differencenow. Which put John Donovan firmly in the past where he belonged.
He hadn’t changed at all. Five years and he was still a player, still a heartbreaker, and still an asshole.
Same old dog. No new tricks.
Except this time he’d made her feel like an asshole, too. A cheap, meaningless asshole. The “old friend” that he’d screwed, banged, fucked—pick your favorite crude term—when he was supposed to be out with someone else.
If the woman had asked him whether he had the plague rather than a girlfriend or wife, he probably would have sounded less horrified.
Were he and the woman serious? Knowing him, she doubted it, but that didn’t make her feel any better right now.
This wasn’t her. She didn’t fall into bed with men. She could count on one hand the number of men she’d slept with. She wanted intimacy, and that took time she never seemed to have to build. She couldn’t spare time for a dog or a cat, let alone a boyfriend. And God knew she’d never find that kind of intimacy with John Donovan, whether it would be in five minutes or five years.
Brittany heard the door close, and he came back in the room. He at least had the decency to look uncomfortable, if not a bit shamefaced.
