Quinton’s wrong. I’m not an angel. If I were, I would’ve been able to savehim.
But onlyI’vebeen saved.
THE FINAL STANDOFF
QUINTON
I preferto believe that most people are good. That most individuals comply with a universally accepted moral compass. Do no harm. Be honest. Help those less fortunate than yourself.
Do no harm.
Harm.
I glance subtly toward Emery as she reads the morning paper. She hasn’t cried in two days. She hasn’t spoken his name. She hasn’t brought him up.
At all.
For the first time in weeks, Damon doesn’t exist. She’s attempting to evict him from her mind. From her heart. She’s trying. But that effort, that need to wipe him from hermemories, falls short. She’s banished him verbally, exiled him physically, but he continues to dwell in every crevice of her emotions. In the way she grips her mug a little too tight. In the way she flips the pages of the New York Times. In the way her eyes never fully shine. Not since he left.
Harm. He’s caused her so much fucking harm.
I refuse to believe it. I cannot fathom the idea that Damon would run into the arms of another woman. Damon is a lot of things, but he’s loyal to those he loves. And he loves Emery. If he didn’t, perhaps he wouldn’t have left—no matter how misguided his departure.
But Emery saw him. She said that she saw him. And I can’t reconcile the two truths. And I can’t keep telling Emery that perhaps she was mistaken. Her entire foundation, her beliefs, have been rattled. I can’t tell her that she’s wrong. But I can prove it.
Evidence is more powerful than theories.
“Where are you going?” Emery’s wary gaze flickers around my face as I arch over and give her a lingering peck on the temple.
“I need to run a couple of errands.” I take a step back and sigh. “I shouldn’t be too long. I’ll pick dinner up on the way home. Italian?”
Emery nods, her lips twisting up in contemplation. “Have you booked our trip yet?”
I swallow. We shouldn’t be running. We shouldn’t be going away without him. “I’ll have options ready for you this evening.”
She smiles faintly. “Options? How exciting.”
Forcing a contented expression, I kiss her again, because once is never enough, and then head to the car.
Luck ison my side today. On my third attempt to track down Damon’s current living quarters, I find him. Today he’s holed up in Soho. Who knew real estate investments weren’t just for growing one’s wealth portfolio?
I rap my knuckles on the front door, inwardly thanking the doorman for being forthcoming. I have the latest edition of GQ to thank. Who’s going to deny information to the May edition cover story?
“Damon! Open the door. I’d like to speak to you.” I need to keep my composure this time. I need to approach him like he’s a wounded rabbit, hurt and afraid. He still has enough energy to flee. Cutting the edge in my voice, I try again. “Please, Damon. Just give me two minutes. It’s… It’s important.”
The door handle twists and Damon appears on the threshold. I narrow my eyes at him as I take in his surprisingly clean and put-together appearance. My gaze flits across his freshly pressed button-down shirt, the gel keeping his hair tamed, and his newly trimmed beard.
“You look well.”
A faint blush creeps up Damon’s cheek as he avoids eye contact. “What do you want, Quin?”
“In a rush?” I cock my head, faint jazz musicsounding from inside his condo. “Or perhaps you’ve got company?”
“I’m busy, Quinton,” he says. My suspicion intensifies as a distant feminine laugh echoes from inside. Damon’s posture stiffens. “Talk, or I’m closing the door.”
My jaw ticks. “Youdohave company.”
“What do you want, Quinton?” Damon crosses his arms, glaring at me. “Your two minutes are almost up.”
