Chapter 22 #2
“Ow!” she says, and swats at me. “What are you doing?”
“We need to talk.” I lead her to the kitchen, and you’d think we’re headed to the gallows the way she’s sulking.
She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “So talk.”
I face her, leaving about two feet of space between us. “Why Loretta?”
“I already told you,” she snaps. “It’s personal.”
“Cut the bullshit, Maeve. We both know what this is about.”
“Well if you know everything, then why are we out here?”
Narrowing my eyes, I tilt my head to the side. “I want to know why you’re jealous.”
“Me?” She points to herself and gives an incredulous laugh. “You think I’m jealous?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I do. You submitted her in tonight’s pot.”
“Why would I be jealous of a blond with fake hair, fake boobs, and a fake nose? God, even her personality is fake.” Her voice is climbing, and if we’re not quiet, someone will come out here to see what’s going on.
I lower mine to just above a whisper. “I know that you know she was here.”
This seems to knock the wind out of her sails, but only for a second. A few quick blinks, and then she’s recovered. “I don’t keep track of who you sleep with. I don’t have that much time.”
“Cute,” I say, scowling. “So why were you jealous?”
“I told you, I wasn’t jealous,” she hisses.
“And I told you, I don’t believe you. What I don’t understand is why you care what I do when you’re sneaking off to flirt with Preston.” I hate that guy’s name in my mouth.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you during the gala.”
“We weren’t flirting. I was explaining to him about the stupid challenge,” she says.
“Seems like an awful lot of words wasted on a dead relationship.”
Realization dawns in her eyes, and she taps her chin. “So that’s what this is all about. You were the jealous one.”
I force a laugh. “What do I have to be jealous of? I just fucked a hot girl all weekend.”
“And lied about it.”
“I thought we needed a little distance.”
“But instead of having a conversation, you thought turning me down and lying about it was the way to go?”
I cross my ankles and shrug. “It had the desired effect.”
“Oh yeah?” Maeve edges closer, until the tips of her pumps bump against the toes of my shoes. “And how does it feel when the tables are turned, hmm?”
A flicker of unease crawls up my spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her mouth curves into a smug smile. “Just that last night, I did the same thing. Turned you down and lied about it.”
I frown at her for several beats before saying, “Why?”
“You were acting like an ass, so I decided to treat you like one.”
Bending down until we are nose to nose, I say, “I am five seconds away from fucking you on this countertop.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“So stay tonight.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You were the one who said we needed distance.”
“And now we’ve had some.”
Her dainty shoulders lift as though we’re discussing something banal, like the weather. “No, I think you’re right. Things were getting too . . . intense.”
I watch her struggle to find the right word to describe us, and through the small crack in her veneer, I catch a glimpse of a side of her few people have ever seen. Maeve’s armor is bulletproof steel, but inside, she is sensitive and riddled with fear that she’ll come up lacking.
Reaching out to cup her jaw—my favorite place to rest my hand—I say, “Come here.”
There’s a brief moment when she hesitates, and I think she’s about to lean into me, but just then, Rhett appears in the kitchen doorway. I drop my hand, and Maeve takes a step back.
“There you two are,” he says, tossing us both a weird look. “I was afraid I’d find a dead body out here.”
“Maeve’s helping me with the drinks,” I tell him, and gesture to the counter where the empty glasses are still sitting.
If Rhett thinks there’s anything going on between us, he doesn’t voice it, just turns and heads back to the game room, leaving Maeve and me to make good on our word.
She carries two cocktails at a time, distributing them to our friends the way she used to.
It’s such a domestic task to do together, and I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if this were actually our life.
Hosting the people we love together. Brushing up against each other in the kitchen.
Defiling every surface in the flat because we can’t get enough.
When she returns for the last round of drinks, I place a hand on her wrist. “Stay,” I say again. “Please.”
She blinks up at me, those huge eyes framed by the most luxurious lashes, and I see the hesitation there, the question of whether I’ll hurt her again, if this whole thing will blow up in her face, and if it’s worth the risk for temporary physical pleasure.
I know she’s going to say no again, and I find myself wishing that love didn’t make you weak, that it somehow made you stronger, because if anybody were capable of strengthening me through their love, it would be the woman in front of me.
But unfortunately, that’s not the case.