Page 85 of The Puck Bunny

She stops dressing, with her panties halfway up her legs.

I should look away, but I can’t.

There’s a look of sheer panic on her face. “No. You can’t drive me home.”

Yeah, I’m right to let her go because she’s not an independent adult yet since she’s still living at home and having to sneak out. Me? I hadn’t been home in six months before this move back, and, before that, it’d been two years. I’m past independent and well on my way to being estranged from my family.

“I get it. No worries. Let me call you an Uber,” I say.

I pull on some boxers and follow her through my bedroom door. She’s carrying her shoes to the living room couch where she left her bag.

“I’ll get it. I have the app.” She pulls her phone from her purse and taps away.

“So, this is it,” I say, partly to make myself believe it.

She looks up, a puzzled smile on her face.

Shit.

“Our fling,” I say. “You accomplished your goal.” I smile.

“What do you mean?” Her brow furrows.

“I mean, this was only a one-night stand for us. For a million reasons.”

Her face falls and I see everything there—all the sadness, disappointment, and lost hope. I see what that little girl looked like when her dad left that day. Jesus fucking Christ. I’m a bastard.

Fisting my hands against the instinct to hug her, to tell her I didn’t mean it, that we can be something, I stand stock still because anything else would be mean.

“Right,” she says, gulping down her emotion and struggling to control her expression. She looks away, then bends down to pulls on her heels.

I take a deep breath because I want to do this right, to make certain she’s clear and knows what’s going on—or not going on—between us.

“Whatever you think of me, Sara, you have to understand one thing. I’m no good for a relationship. I have a lot of baggage to unpack and goals to conquer.”

She straightens and looks at me, her heart on her sleeve and brave determination vibrating from her. She looks exactly like that brave puck bunny she was that first night I saw her at The Tea Party.

A vicious knife of pain stabs me between my shoulder blades.

“What about your mom—"

“No matter what my mother thinks, I can’t have a relationship with you or any other woman now. I’ll have to make her understand that, but that’s another problem for another day.”

I’ll have to fucking disappoint my mother yet again and hope she forgives me. But one thing is for certain. I’m going to be there for her, including the dinner the day after Thanksgiving.

“What about the day after Thanksgiving dinner?” Sara says, pulling on her coat, her voice quivering with the exertion of holding her emotions back.

“I’ll talk to her about the dinner. Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to be there or explain it. I’ll handle it.”

Sara nods, her brave face falling steadily into disappointment, the bravery and sunshine diminishing, and I wonder exactly how big a horse’s ass I can become? If I keep seeing her, I’d be afraid to look in the mirror. I’m already not liking the man I see much.

I have no idea who the hell Sara sees when she looks at me, but it’s not who I am. He’s a figment of her imagination.

“The Uber will be here in a minute.” She looks at me with glassy eyes, her voice wobbling, but she doesn’t cry. She walks to the front door, bag in hand.

I follow her, running a hand through my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I say when we stop at the doorway.