That didn’t sound very definitive.
I still haven’t told him about Jackson—I haven’t found the right moment—but maybe now is a good time.
“I need to tell you something,” I say carefully, putting my phone aside.
He looks immediately on edge.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, touching his arm. “It’s nothing bad. It’s just that Jackson and I have been talking. He guessed that we were trying to make him jealous.”
Étienne’s eyes flare wide as he stares at me.
“But he said that it worked. He admitted that he has feelings for me. He actually said that he thinks he’s in love with me,” I relay tentatively as I sit up and turn to face him properly. He’s as still as I’ve ever seen him. “But I don’t feel that way about him, Étienne. I told him how I feel about you—”
“Don’t fall in love with me, Grace.” He looks away as he says the words.
I recoil. “It’s already happening. And you could love me too, I know you could, if you let yourself. I know you’re—”
“No, youdon’tknow,” he snaps, swinging his legs out of bed. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Étienne, that’s not true.” I stare at the curls on the back of his head. “Of course I know you.”
“No,” he says with a hard look over his shoulder. “Youdon’t.”His jaw is clenched, his expression dark. After a pause he asks, “Was he hurt?”
“What?”
“Jackson. When you turned him down. Was he hurt?”
I’m surprised not just by the question, but by the tone in which it’s asked. There’s not a trace of concern, not an ounce of sympathy.
“Yes. He was,” I reply with trepidation.
I see a cruel glint of satisfaction in his eyes and it hits me like a lightning bolt: Jackson was right. Itispersonal.
“Why do you want to hurt him so much?” I ask, stunned.
He gets up and swipes his shorts from a nearby chair, yanking them on.
“Étienne!” I slide out of bed and cross the room to him, wearing only his T-shirt that I dragged on in the middle of the night. “What’s this really about?” I place my hands on his bare chest as he glares out of the window. I reach up to brush his hair back from his face, my thumb inadvertently tracing the small scar bisecting his right eyebrow.
He flinches away from my touch, his eyes suddenly racked with pain as he looks down at me. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
I’m flummoxed. “Rememberwhat?”
His expression is indecipherable. He’s open and exposed and yet totally shut off at the same time.
“This is not working,” he says bluntly as he sidesteps me. “It’s better that we end this now before I hurt you too.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I warned you not to get attached,” he says angrily.
“I can’t just switch off my feelings!” It’s as Mellie said. “And neither can you!”
“I can and I will and I have.” He stalks across the room to the door. “I’m going out.”
“Well, take your fucking T-shirt with you!” Hot tears sting my eyes as I drag it over my head, ball it up, and launch it at him.
He catches it, and for just a second agony blasts away his fury and his eyes are full of regret, but then the look is gone—and he is too.
