Page 145 of Lucky Shot

“Where’s Hardy?” I ask and search the crowd again. Suri meets my eyes, but I swear there’s disappointment in them.

I’m not sure why though, but for the first time ever, I feel like it’s aimed at me.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Whitney

“C’mon. Pick up,” I mutter into my phone as I stare up at the darkened penthouse from my car where it’s parked on the street.

The phone rings again, and then a split second before it goes to voicemail, he answers.

“Hello?”

He knows it’s me, but instead of greeting me, he acts like he doesn’t. I don’t know why that stings so harshly.

“Hardy,” I whisper.

“It’s late, Barnes. I just got settled in my hotel. What do you need?”

Barnes? Not Whit? Not Lucky Shot?

“Hotel? I thought travel day was tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, I decided to get here early. Need to put some extra time in since I’ve been distracted lately. Added a few meetings to the morning to occupy my time.”

Touché.

“Hardy.” I pause, desperate and wanting to say so much but feeling like I need a can opener to help pry it out of me. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing more to say, is there? I said it all. You said nothing. End of story.”

My hands begin to tremble. “You should have been here tonight,” I say with a bit more resilience, none of which I feel right now. “You put so much time and effort into the planning of this, and you weren’t there to see my reaction to any of it.”

“I didn’t think I was welcome—”

“That’s not—”

“I didn’t do it for a reaction. I did it because the kids deserve it. That and maybe it’ll make your life a little fucking easier, but what the hell do I know?” He’s angry. Understandably. I’d be too if I did all of this and then didn’t feel welcome enough to show up. “You asked for space. I gave it to you.”

“I didn’t ask for space.”

“Didn’t you though?” he bites out. I swear I can hear his hand scrub over the stubble of his face.

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “Not fair is laying your heart on the line and not receiving a single fucking word back. Not fair is the other person not loving you enough because their own fear of being hurt is stronger than how they feel about you. And yes, I’m well aware your wounds run deep, but so do fucking mine, Whitney. So do fucking mine.”

His words rip those wounds open and lay them bare. I thought I’d done so well to hide them.

“I don’t know what to say. You—you went above and beyond for me and tried to build sustainability into my business when I never could before. You made this everything I dreamed it could be but wasn’t able to fulfill. I’m at a loss for words.”

“Oh, so we’re going back to what I said earlier. That we can discuss the one but not the other. They’re mutually exclusive? Well, I lied. We can’t. I can’t look at you and not want you or care for you. I can’t be near you and wonder what else I could have done to show you I’m here.”

“I wish you were here.” It’s a consolation statement because fear holds captive everything else I feel. Fear that I’m so damn sick of.

“Do you really though?” he asks. “Because I had half a mind to be there tonight. To watch your surprise. To see that I heard you and tried to turn something negative and scarring for you into something positive for others. The other half of me? It felt you should know what it felt like for me not to be there. I wanted you to turn to talk to me and feel what it’s like if I’m not there anymore. To fucking miss me. Petty? Yes. But isn’t that what you’re risking? What you’re missing out on? This thing we’ve built together . . . are you really willing to just walk away from it because it’s hard and scary?”

“I’m trying. I’m working on it. You can’t just erase years of conditioning.”