Gazing down at my suit, I swipe away an imaginary piece of lint from my sleeve. I can’t believe I pulled this stupid thing out of my closet just to impress Kiki. What am I, sixteen?
She’s always seen me in jeans and boots, usually covered in sweat and whatever grime the day handed me, and although I know she appreciates the blue-collar side of me, I wanted her to see that I could clean up too, that I could meet her on her turf and walk right alongside her in this fancy world she used to know so well.
Because this—these people, their pedigrees, theglitz and glamour—was Kiki’s life up until a year ago. This is her arena, where she shines, where she feels most at home.
Me? I stick out like a sore thumb, even in a designer suit.
And I know it.
What does it matter anyway? Soon Kiki will be thousands of miles away, building a fabulous new life without me.
Why can’t I cut her loose? Why can’t my heart let her go? Why can’t I break whatever hold she has on me?
I take a long pull of my whiskey, wishing like hell it was a beer.
Kiki and I only dated for a couple of months. That’s it. This should be over and done with. Her memory should be long gone, not sitting front and center in my head like it owns the damn place.
Maybe it’s because we work together every day. It’s a constant reminder.
So when she goes to Los Angeles, the reminder goes with her.
The thing is, I get why she wants to leave Sparkwood. I’m not mad at her for wanting a new life, a fresh start away from all the degradation she deals with on the daily.
But I hoped she and I could build something together. Something that could withstand anything life threw our way.
Because there were so many moments over the last couple of months where I believed she felt it too.
It was the softness in her eyes when I talked about Theo, the tears brimming behind her lashes when I kept my distance, and the way she clung to me when I finally let her back in.
Turns out, there’s only one thing I know for certain about Kiki Wilder. She’ll fit right in in Hollywood, because she’s one hell of an actress.
Has to be, since I fall for her every damn time.
“Got a minute?”
You’d think storming off mid-conversation would be blatant enough for Kiki to take the hint that I needed some space, but apparently not.
I down what’s left in my glass and set it on the bar. “Forgive me, Kiki, but I don’t really want to discuss your upcoming move to Los Angeles right now. I’m sure you’re wildly excited, but it threw me for a loop, so just give me a day or two to let that settle.”
She slides her empty wine glass across the bar and asks the bartender for another. “His offer threw me, too. I figured I was getting fired.”
I finally look at her, meeting that dark gaze I love so much. “Why would you get fired? You’re doing an amazing job on this house.”
Kiki takes a decent swallow of her refill before releasing a sharp, caustic laugh. “As if that matters. It’s Sparkwood, Eddie. They hate me because they can. It’s allowed around these parts, remember?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a few locals showing a little too much interest in our conversation. Fucking rubberneckers.
As always, the anger kicks in, at the hatred tossed so casually in Kiki’s direction. “Do I need to have a word with them?”
She rests her hand on my arm, giving it a small squeeze. “Thank you, but no. Nolan won’t let anyone step out of line, considering it is his party.”
“Right. My mistake.” Who needs me when you’ve got Nolan Montague?
I pull my arm out of her reach and grab the glass of whiskey before the bartender can even set it down, bringing it straight to my lips.
Keep them coming, man.
My fingers drum against the edge of the bar as I try torein in the mess in my head. I don’t even know what I feel anymore—anger, jealousy, frustration, or some toxic mix of the three—and damned if I know who any of it’s aimed at.
