Chapter 6
SIX
The reader event, despite Preston’s presence, had been amazing. I’d been nervous, of course. Why would anybody possibly want to hang out with me when I wasn’t that interesting? But there had been a whole group of readers who wanted to meet me.
Some were there because they were already fans of Bree and had met her the previous year. They all seemed excited to meet me as well. So after my initial bout of nerves, I settled in.
Nathan kept close. He sat one table over and interacted with his fans. More than once, however, I felt his gaze on me. He seemed as amped about my readers as I was. A couple times, when I started floundering, he smoothly stepped in and kept the conversation going.
I hated that he was so good with people.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. I didn’t hate it. I was jealous. My mother was good with people too. I’d been raised to handle anything when it came to interacting with strangers. My mother always said it was important. Somewhere along the line, I’d lost that ability, and I desperately wanted it back.
After three hours of chatting with readers, some of whom had specifically come for me, I was exhausted. Everybody walked out together, and Nathan insisted on seeing me home, even though my new apartment was only a couple blocks away.
I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he was adamant. He didn’t come right out and say he was worried about Preston following me, but it was right there, bubbling just beneath the surface. He did not like Preston. Most people didn’t. They tolerated him.
So I let Nathan walk me home. We went into the building together, but he let me get on the elevator by myself.
He gave me a little salute and said he would see me soon.
There was nothing romantic about the gesture, yet a little pang went through me when he blew me an extravagant, although fake, kiss.
That had been three days ago. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Not that I was expecting to or anything. Once the retreat rolled around, we would have to keep up appearances—Preston would make sure of that—but Nathan was friendly enough. We would be fine.
I just felt so guilty about him going out of his way for me, a woman he barely knew. He didn’t know me, yet he’d already done more to help me than Preston ever had. What did that say about my taste in men?
I wasn’t happy about any of it. I felt guilty because Nathan was going above and beyond, and Preston’s presence in town made me feel itchy. I had to assume he was flying in for the events, but a part of me worried that he’d found a place to live here in town just so he could be close.
The man didn’t love me. He never had. This was all a game to him. He wouldn’t rent—or worse, buy—a place in Savannah just to mess with me. Right?
It made no sense for him to go that route. But part of me still wondered.
Because I was determined to love my new city, I pushed thoughts of him out of my mind and set about exploring. Each day, I went to a different coffee shop to check out the vibe. At each visit, I sat near the window and watched the foot traffic as I wrote.
My mind was open and ready for anything.
There was no struggle as I put words on the page.
Sure, I was still percolating horror stories that I desperately wanted to write, but I didn’t hate the romantasy.
It was fun and light, and so much of my life in the years leading up to leaving Preston had been the opposite of that.
I would not let him ruin things for me. Not again.
I would make Savannah my home. I would find happiness—and maybe someone to love, eventually.
For now, Nathan had given me an easy out.
I wouldn’t forget about that. Somewhere down the line, when he needed a favor, I would provide it, no questions asked.
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I forced my attention back to the book I was writing. Today I was at Savannah Coffee Roasters on Liberty Street. It had a deliberately funky vibe that I adored, complete with a brick archway to finish off the industrial feeling that permeated the space.
I was on my second lavender latte with almond milk and had a turkey and cranberry sandwich sitting by my computer to munch on. I was determined to get through at least five thousand words that afternoon, which would make for some real progress on this book.
I had everything I needed, but then a storm bum-rushed the sun when Preston sat across from me without invitation.
How did he even know where I was?
I wasn’t afraid of him. I’d meant what I’d said to Bree and Hayley. He would never physically hurt me. This, however, was psychological warfare. He knew exactly what he was doing. I would not let him win.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, not bothering with a greeting. Nobody around us knew who we were. I didn’t care if anybody eavesdropped.
“Oh, is that any way to greet the love of your life?” He leaned back in his chair, looking stuffy and out of place in his three-piece suit. Leave it to Preston to wear a suit for a day of sightseeing in Savannah.
Although, was that what he was doing? Why was he here? How had he found me? I had so many questions. I refused to let him think he’d rattled me, however. Instead, I made a grand show of looking around the coffee shop.
“What are you doing?” Preston demanded, frowning. Now that he had nobody to put on an act for, he was coming across as a righteous idiot.
“I’m looking for the love of my life,” I replied, not missing a beat. “I hope he’s tall. I like them tall.”
It was a petty dig, and I wasn’t sorry. One of the things Preston was most sensitive about was his height. He was five feet seven, which was perfectly fine when standing next to somebody like me. When he stood next to somebody like Nathan, however, he looked like a little boy.
That was another reason I was happy to play Nathan’s game. Just his height was enough to make Preston uncomfortable.
“Your wit still needs some work,” Preston replied. “We can do that together, when we get you home.”
Is he kidding me right now? He had to be. “I am home.”
“This is just an adventure you’ve convinced yourself that you need. I get it.” He held his hands up, as if in surrender. “I acknowledge my part in how things went wrong. It’s time you do the same so we can move past this.”
I narrowed my eyes. “My part?”
“That’s what I said. It was hardly just my fault.”
“Is that so?” I wanted to shake him until the marbles rolled out of his head. Or maybe beat him like a pinata. Nothing inside of him was sweet like candy, though.
“Oh, don’t look at me that way.” Preston sounded as if he were admonishing a petulant child. “We can’t move forward until you admit your part. My therapist told me that.”
“Your therapist?”
That was the most surprising thing he’d said.
Was Preston really in therapy? Not that it would change anything between us.
I hadn’t even realized I couldn’t breathe until I’d walked away from him.
There was no way I was going back to that.
However, if he was actually embracing therapy, maybe he wouldn’t make the next woman in his life feel how I had felt when with him.
That was the only good thing that might come out of this.
“Yes.” Preston’s smile stretched across his face, reminding me of a clown. Pennywise, to be exact. “I’ve been seeing a therapist for the past six months. Dr. Rosenthal. We’ve done some good work together.”
“Well, I’m glad for you.” I shut my laptop so he wouldn’t see what I was writing. I didn’t need the derision in my life. “What has your therapist told you?”
“That I care too much about what people think about me.”
It wasn’t the response I was expecting. “You mean your father.”
Genuine shock reverberated across his features. “My father? This has nothing to do with my father. I’ve been talking about you.”
“Me? I don’t understand.”
“I was always so worried about being the right man for you, taking care of you—”
“I didn’t ask you to take care of me.” My voice ratcheted up a notch.
The smug look on his face told me he had been expecting that reaction. “Of course you did. Not with words or anything, but you expected me to give you the life your mother never could.”
“No.” I vehemently shook my head. “I never wanted that from you. I never asked for anything like that from you. All I wanted was for us to have a partnership.”
“Did you though?” He cocked his head. “Because that’s not how I remember it. You were always on me about what I could bring to the relationship. I wasn’t doing enough. I didn’t express my feelings enough.”
I reached for my latte to give myself a moment to collect myself. He was pushing buttons. No matter what he said, that was what he was here to do. I wasn’t going to fall for it, either.
“I never asked you to express your feelings,” I said when I was certain I wouldn’t start screaming at him.
This man was utterly frustrating. What was worse, he was manipulative.
Nothing he was saying to me was truthful.
He was even lying to himself. He’d told himself a specific narrative and was embracing it because that was best for him.
At one time—for a long time, actually—I’d allowed him to get away with that. I had no intention of doing that again. Not ever.
“Of course you did,” he said. “Nothing I did was ever enough for you.”
“I never pressured you to give me more,” I countered. “I was afraid to do that because, deep down, I never thought I was good enough for you.”
“I never said anything of the sort.” He had the balls to pretend to be shocked by my words. “I never looked at you any differently, despite how you were raised.”
And there it was. The backhanded way he insulted me while pretending he was doing something else.
“There’s nothing wrong with how I was raised,” I replied.
“I didn’t say there was. It was just very different from how I was raised.”