Page 63 of On The Edge

“What does that mean?”

“The I don’t give a fuck part?” He looks my way with a grin that’s much more melancholic than anything.

“The Navarro part.”

“My family is everything. It’s who I am. It’s the talent I’ve been given and the chances it’s afforded me. My grandfather—mi patriarca—is the only person I’ve ever idolized. He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to emulate. I have my father to thank for that. And him to hate for it too.”

“What does—”

“Look, I face more scrutiny before I drink my morning cup of coffee, so who cares if cameras catch me drinking or having a good time?” he says, almost as if he just slipped with that little admission and is trying to cover it back up. “Why would it faze me if they write about the women I date or the exploits I have? That’s a drop in the bucket to the pressure I put on myself.”

I don’t even know how to respond to that. Here I am freaking out about my name being tied to his, when he lives under the magnifying glass every second of every day.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think to say, but he just laughs it off and moves back beneath the lattice. The sounds of alcohol sloshing in the bottle as he lifts it to his lips follow soon thereafter.

“I don’t want your pity, Hart. What I do want though is some peace and quiet. Alone.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea—”

“It’s time for you to go back to the room and let my bottle be my company. It doesn’t ask questions and it doesn’t make me feel obligated to answer them.”

“Cruz . . .”

“Just give me this. For tonight. I’ll be okay. Just need to work through some of that shit I was talking about.” He takes a drink. “Tomorrow, we head home to Monaco.”

I move toward him and we stare at each other through the darkness. It pains me to walk away, to give him what he asks for, but I also don’t have the slightest clue what to do or say to him.

The articles I read about a tight-knit, impenetrable Navarro clan? I’m beginning to think they’re as bogus as this relationship we have.

What I saw today was brutal repudiation . . . and it’s clearly not the first time if Cruz has a built-in coping mechanism.

What worries me the most though?

Like with all things knitted, they have the ability to unravel.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cruz

She sleeps.

I don’t slide under the covers into the bed beside her. I don’t dare fucking tempt myself with everything she is when I’d give anything to get lost in her right now. When the alcohol is dulling my sensibility and restraint.

Hasn’t that been the fucking problem since the other night?

God, has it only been a few nights? It feels like for-fucking-ever since I took one for the team—allowed her to save face—by acting like the sex we had didn’t rock my fucking world. Like I wasn’t standing there watching her turn every shade of red because she was embarrassed by what we did.

She said it was a mistake.

She blamed the alcohol and said it can’t happen again.

She begged me to understand that she’s not that kind of girl.

That it was just sex.

How many times have I told myself the same since then? Tried to convince myself? And why have I thought about it way more than I should?

“You’re distracted and it showed . . . A good start would be you getting rid of her.”