Chapter 50 #2
When someone bumps into me, then excuses themself, I realize I’m staring.
I turn my head to the side, pretending to be lost in thought, but a second later, my eyes are straying back to her.
She’s holding a glass of champagne in her hand, occasionally lifting it to those red lips and making her slender throat bob as she swallows.
I don’t even notice him standing next to her—that’s how forgettable he is—until he slips his arm around her, his hand resting on the small of her back. Which is bare. He is literally touching my girl’s bare skin, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
My head starts to throb. She should be on my arm, not Preston fucking Ansley’s.
The prick doesn’t deserve her pinkie toe, let alone every inch of her.
Just a few months ago, he was wearing another woman’s ring, and now he’s putting his hands on Maeve like he owns her. Like she’s lucky to be with him.
Clenching my fists, I go in search of a stronger cocktail. Whatever elderflower shit they’re serving won’t get me nearly as drunk as I need to be if I am to endure this night.
Armed with a whiskey neat I sweet-talked the bartender into pouring me, I head for the front lobby. It was mostly deserted when I arrived, and I’m hoping it will still be that way. I’ve got about three more hours of this shit before I can go home.
Turns out I’m in luck. Not only are there only a few stragglers in the reception area, but there’s a suede sofa tucked against a wall that is calling my name.
I’m not going to sleep—although that sounds pretty good right now—but I need to sit down.
I feel like I’ve been whacked in the chest with a sledgehammer.
I sink into the soft cushions with a sigh and lean back, shutting my eyes. Above me, the air-conditioning purrs, the sound occasionally punctuated by the door to the powder rooms closing or someone softly speaking to a companion.
Just when I start to think I might doze off after all, a voice cuts through everything, like a glass shard through skin.
“Pierce?”
Blinking my eyes open, I sit upright. There she is, standing less than five feet from me, her perfume floating toward me like a siren’s song on the breeze. “Hey.” I grind my molars together and down the rest of my whiskey before wincing at the burn.
Her dress rustles as she moves closer, and I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d go back to him so I don’t have to see her, don’t have to hear her or smell her or think about her. I keep my eyes glued to the tiled floor.
“Are you okay?” Maeve asks softly.
She’s never spoken to me like this before—this quietly, this gently. Is it the result of being with him exclusively, or something else? Has she changed that much in the past two and a half months?
I give her a short and humorless laugh without looking up. “Yep, just fine.”
Without asking if it’s okay, she takes the seat beside me, sending my heart careening over the side of the Grand Canyon and smashing into a thousand pieces at the bottom. Her bare arm brushes against my jacket, and I suck in a breath between my teeth.
I bolt to my feet, desperate to put space between us before I grab her and force her to admit she cares. But the fact is, I thought she cared, and now I don’t know anymore. If she did, she wouldn’t have left.
She frowns at me, the old Maeve settling into her face. Pushing to her feet—she still only reaches my shoulder—she folds her arms. “You’re not acting fine.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m pissed?” I bend over to set down my glass before I throw it across the room. “Okay. I’m pissed.”
“What for?”
This time I laugh for real. “You’re hilarious.”
“Forgive me for trying to understand.”
“Fuck understanding.” I lean down so she can smell the alcohol on my breath. Maybe then she’ll go running back to where she came from. “You’re here for what you can’t get from him.”
The smack comes without warning. Her mouth forms a tiny O the second her palm connects with my cheek. It stings, but I relish it. It gives me something to feel besides this excruciating clawing desire to get out of my own body.
“How dare you,” she hisses, but there’s less venom in her voice than usual. It seems that slap drained something from her and gave it to me instead.
“How dare I?” I taunt her. “I did nothing.”
“The day you do nothing will be the day hell freezes over.”
“Hope you’ve RSVP’d.”
Her glare turns lethal, bringing a smirk to my lips. I haven’t had this much fun in months.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” I shove a finger against my chest. “You’re the one who walked away.”
“It was time,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction. “We both knew it.”
Too bad for her, I don’t care. It’s too little, too late. If she’s here to apologize, she’s barking up the wrong tree. “Quit assuming anything about me.”
Genuine hurt crosses her face, and a flash of pain tears through my chest. “Pierce,” she begins, but I cut her off by holding up my hand. I’ve seen this movie before. The ending sucks.
“Don’t.”
She twists her hands together in front of her, her delicate gold bracelet catching the light from the chandelier above us. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
I take a step toward her, because my body physically can’t handle the distance between us. If she’s in the room, I need to be next to her. Why do you think I’ve stayed away for so long?
“Tell me you’re not serious,” I say.
She swallows audibly, and I know I’m making her nervous. Good. Let her squirm. She’s had me under her thumb long enough. She nods, lifting her chin the way she does when she’s trying to regain control. “I am.”
“I would have given up everything for you. Every goddamn thing. If you had asked me for the sun, I would’ve found a way to get it for you.” The words come out strained. “You had me on my fucking knees, Maeve.”
Her lips part as she inhales sharply, and my eyes immediately land on them, drawn there like a moth to a flame.
My mouth aches to crash into hers, to claim it, to remind her of exactly what she walked away from.
But I don’t let it. I wouldn’t even if she begged me to.
Because whatever was once between us has been hacked to pieces by the hatchet she keeps in her tiny little bag.
“But don’t worry,” I say, breathing out the words so that they brush against the shell of her ear. “It won’t ever happen again.”
When she’s good and speechless, I reach down and retrieve my empty glass from the floor. Holding it out to her in a mock toast, I throw her a scornful wink and walk away.
It sickens me to do it, because I know it’s going to hurt her, but I don’t have the power to resist. Fuck this bullshit. Maybe I should consider relocating to Canada after all. At the very least, I could look into doing some traveling—anything that takes me out of her orbit more often.
Because one thing is as clear as the crystal tumbler I’m holding. I will never give my heart to a woman again.