CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Whitney
W hen you’re in my life ...
Those five words repeat in my head as Hardy drives aimlessly through the city streets.
I hate how they make me feel.
I love how they make me feel.
But ... they make me feel and that’s way more than anyone else has done in a really long time.
I struggle with embracing the idea and truly accepting it, and yet I know I’m going to. It’s just as simple as that.
It’s like I cracked the door to that thought, and with each passing day, it keeps getting pushed open inch by pesky inch—or rather, Hardy keeps a steady pressure at pushing it open.
And with his explanation tonight about the photo I’ve been stewing about for two days, he just inched it open a bit more when I was ready to slam it in his face.
“Now, let’s get you home. You said you weren’t feeling that great,” he says.
“It’s nothing.” The lie is effortless despite the pang in my gut and the general feeling of malaise.
“I doubt it. You’re not someone who mentions being sick for sympathy.” He reaches over and pats my leg again, but he leaves his hand there when he’s done. “Now tell me where you live so I can drop you off.”
“Um, we can just go back and get my car,” I say as panic hits me. The last thing I want him to know is where I live.
Especially after seeing where he does.
“It’s no big deal. I’ll take you home and then grab you on the way back in the morning. Besides, the neighborhood isn’t exactly safe. The fact that you wanted to take Joey home by yourself doesn’t sit right with me so what makes you think I’m going to leave you all alone there now?”
“Thank you for your concern but—”
“But nothing. You’re worried about Joey’s safety so why can’t I be worried about yours?”
“You can, it’s just ...” I live here too ? I live in this shady, unsafe neighborhood because that’s all I can afford. How do I explain that to someone like you who grew up in a polar opposite situation? Especially when you’ve made it clear that you think where I live is crappy.
And even in recognizing that, it doesn’t dissipate the shame I feel.
“If you don’t give me an address, I’ll be forced to take you to my place. Easy solution.”
Panic flickers through me as the nausea I’ve felt all day returns. I feel shitty enough that the lie rolls off my tongue without much arguing.
“Um, Corte Villa Apartments,” I say and then rattle off Suri’s old address to him. At least I know the complex is nice and there’s an exterior gate he can’t follow me in past.
The last thing I can afford is to pay for a rideshare home from there, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting him see my place.
I fight the urge to wrap my arms around my abdomen as the ache there grows more intense and the beginning of a fever hits. My palms are clammy, and my head is dizzy, but I don’t say a word.
Just get me to Suri’s old place. Then I can get home and not worry about him seeing me like this.
Luckily, we pull up in front in no time, but I’ve neglected to think of the next steps and what to do now.
“You don’t have to walk me up,” I say quickly as he opens the passenger door for me.
“I insist.”
“No. Please .” I reach out and put a hand on his bicep. Quick. Think of a reason. “Taking me home was more than enough.”
He looks over my shoulder to the gate at the apartments’ entrance and then back to me. Here’s to hoping they haven’t changed the gate code since she moved.
“I don’t feel right—”
“No. I insist. The neighbor has a newborn. Strangers make the dog in the apartment across bark. It wakes the baby up. I’m just trying to be nice.” What in the hell are you saying, Whit?
He eyes me a little closer—almost as if he’s checking to see if I’m delirious. Eventually, he’s okay with what he sees because he rubs a hand up and down my back. “I’ll pick you up at eight then?”
“No. Please. It’s okay.” I don’t have the funds to pay for a rideshare back here. This is ridiculous but I put myself in this position to begin with. “I’ll—uh—catch a ride with my best friend. She heads that way.”
“Suri, right? The blonde from the bar?”
“Yes. Her.” Everybody notices Suri. It’s not surprising he has either. “We carpool sometimes.” I force a smile.
He eyes me and nods. “I’m having a tough time figuring you out when I can normally figure anyone out.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know, but I want to.” He purses his lips and shakes his head as he runs the back of his hand down my cheek. I fight the urge to lean into it.
“I’m not exactly an open book.”
“And according to you, I’m not your type.” He lifts his eyebrows in challenge.
“You’re not,” I lie. “You’re wild and unpredictable, and you—”
“What? You don’t like walks on the wild side every now and again?” he asks as my body heats up at the thought despite not feeling too hot.
I smile. “Not when those walks mean I’m going to walk off a cliff and get hurt.”
“Good thing I hate hiking up tall mountains and regularly avoid cliffs.”
Why is he saying all of this? There’s no way in hell Hardy is suggesting what I think he is—least of all with me.
“I’m the one in pain here,” I say pressing a hand to my abdomen, “but you’re the one who’s clearly hallucinating.”
“That, right there.” He wags a finger at me. “You always turn things around rather than address them.”
“I do not.”
He rolls his eyes. “You do too.”
“I can’t do this right now. In truth, I can’t do this ever.”
“No one has done anything just yet, now, have they?” His voice is playful, but the glance my way is real.
But we have done something. We did do something. And all of those somethings are amounting to possibility and hope and everything I’ve always shied away from.
But for some reason, when it comes to him, the scary is overshadowed by ... curiosity and how good he makes me feel on all fronts.
I’m slowly getting used to the idea.
I force myself to be as real as I can be with him—and myself. “I don’t—” I look away and drop my hands that I’ve thrown up in the air in exasperation once again. My stunted emotional capabilities aren’t exactly serving me well at this moment. “I’m trying to be or do whatever this needs me to be when I don’t know exactly what this is. I’m trying when I’ve never tried before and that says a lot about ... you. This. Just everything.”
His smile is the slowest crawl of pride that paints his lips. “I’ll take that. Gladly.” He runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Here’s the thing. All I know is that we like each other. You can refute that all you want but it’s a fact. There’s a chemistry I can’t explain, and I don’t think I want to. You feel it too, or you wouldn’t still be here considering your past admissions and history.”
Oh boy. The man is calling me on the carpet, and I’m at a loss for words because he’s one hundred percent right. “Okay.” I draw the word out, not trusting myself to say anything more.
“You challenge me. You’re gorgeous. You’re intelligent and sassy. I’m drawn to you in a way I don’t even understand, and fuck if I don’t want you again. What that means, who the hell knows, but isn’t that the fun part?”
“I don’t do fun,” I deadpan and push away the pain in my side.
He laughs. “The woman has jokes.” He bends his knees so we’re at eye level, and I’m unable to look anywhere else. “I think it’s time you need to start having some.”
“Sure. Fine. Right after I feel better.”
His smile ghosts over his lips and tugs on parts of me despite how ill I feel. “We’re making progress. That’s better than total rejection. I’ll take it.”
“You need help,” I say and push against his chest. “And I really need to go to bed.”
“You’re not looking too good,” he says.
“Already winning me over with compliments.” I smile through the nausea and hate that when he brushes my hair off my forehead and studies me, it takes everything not to ask him to take me to my real apartment so I can get there sooner.
“When go away is the bar you’ve set, I’m beginning to think I’m a goddamn Romeo.”
“You do know they both die in the end, right? Maybe use a different reference.”
We both chuckle, but then his face falls. “I’m serious, Whit. You don’t look good. Let me walk you—”
“No. I’ve got it. I’m good.” For a second, I forgot where we were and the lie I was upholding. That’s how lightheaded I am right now. “Good night. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for ... going with me to take Joey home.”
“Feel better,” he says and nods.
And I almost cry in relief when the gate opens with the old code. I glance over my shoulder to where he’s still standing and wave goodbye to him, and then sag in relief against it when it closes at my back. My exhale is shaky as I move toward a bench in the courtyard, needing to sit. This pain is intensifying, and I’m silently begging him to drive away so I can get a rideshare back to my place.
As I sink down on the bench, all I want is some cold water on my face and my bed. But those two things don’t override the confusion that owns every one of my other thoughts.
How can I like a man who doesn’t understand my world? Who warns me not to go out at night in the very neighborhood that, unbeknownst to him, I live in?
How can I want a man who I know will be gone in a matter of months? And not just gone but on the world stage?
It’s like I know all the reasons why I shouldn’t want him, why I can’t want him, but then I keep wondering why I crave his touch, want to hear his laugh and think about seeing him again.
You’re insane, Whitney. Absolutely fucking insane.
The idea of anything more with Hardy is enticing but completely unrealistic.
I live in a studio apartment. His living standard is a penthouse.
I’m broke and collectors are threatening to take my business away from me. He’s rich and has never gone a day without.
I hide from the world and crave its acceptance, and he bathes in the glory it praises upon him.
Our lives are so far removed from one another. We just don’t fit .
Walk on the wild side, my ass.
You challenge me. You’re gorgeous. You’re intelligent and sassy. I’m drawn to you in a way I don’t even understand, and fuck if I don’t want you again. What that means, who the hell knows, but isn’t that the fun part?
In the perfect world with the perfect main characters, yep.
We’re both far from perfect.
And yet, I’m drawn to you too.