CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN #3
“First, I do not talk about her like she’s the one who got away. No part of my brain ever fathomed there being a one until you.”
He stares at me with a dare to refute it, but I cross my arms over my chest, intrigued by how he’s going to spin this.
“They have dueling pianists at Café L’Ambroisie.
I was there, saw her sitting alone, told her I was the owner, and bought her a drink.
Every song they played seemed to echo what I was saying.
She accused me of manipulating the music selection—which I was not, but I claimed credit anyway because she seemed impressed.
And I’m an asshole sometimes.” He cuts a defeated hand through the air, pissed about his assholeishness.
“She said I was only interested in one thing with women. I lied, insisting she had me all wrong. She asked what my thoughts about her the next day would be. Right on cue, the pianist pointed in our direction while playing ‘You Shook Me All Night Long,’ and she walked right out the door.”
I’m flabbergasted for nearly a minute as I consider every angle.
“That is the most asinine story I may have ever heard. Someday, I’m going to laugh about it.
Maybe with Flora. But not now.” I heave a breath, calmer but still seething.
“I’ve tried to get past my insecurities and not think about how many people you’ve been with.
There was only one who mattered, and you—”
“Didn’t chase her,” he breaks in.
“What?”
A muscle in his jaw clenches, and his eyes darken with determination. “I didn’t fucking follow her.”
I get that perspective, but I’m still hurt. “You also hardly ever hit on people. And you sought her out.”
“I was there. She was alone. It was convenient. That’s it—backed up by the fact that I watched her walk out the door, texted my family about it because I was convinced someone was punking me, and only brought it up continuously because I’d already owned crashing and burning.
But I didn’t think about her again beyond that. ”
I shake my head, so he moves closer, gripping my chin to force me to look at him.
“Not like you, who I chased around the city, spent weeks trying to figure out your name, tracked down more than once, and brought home. And I’d noticed you before that. Did I ever tell you how I figured out your name?”
“No,” I whisper, dizzy from his enticing depraved-mayhem fragrance.
“I remembered you from the WAGs After Dark banquet. I saw you while Mercy was giving her toast, and I thought you were stunning. But you were someone else’s. And still, years later, after only seeing you with a mask on, I remembered.”
He remembered me.
I step back, rubbing my forehead while my heart cracks open. “I hear all that. I just—”
“Do not make a fifteen-minute conversation into even a shadow of what we have.”
“You’re right,” I concede, and he sighs in relief that slices through me. “It’s just … there’s a lot going on. And we’re moving really fast—”
“Your parents got married in forty-eight hours,” he argues—because this man recalls everything.
“My father also went to prison, so emulating them is ill-advised,” I retort.
“We’re long past forty-eight hours, Sylv.”
“We are,” I agree, breezing into the closet. “But maybe we should take a step back and keep this casual. I’m living with you, and …”
“You want to keep it casual?” His tone is so chilling; it seeps into my lungs like a humid blizzard.
No, I don’t want to keep it casual. I want to share the best part of me with you. But it’s buried under so much pain; I can’t seem to find it. And I can’t ask you to stick around while I do.
That’s a lot, so I turn to face him and paraphrase. “I don’t want to lose you and your family because we put expectations on this that we shouldn’t.”
“So, casual?” he muses, hands in his pockets. “Like we see other people? Fuck other people?”
My brain gets foggy with that horrid suggestion, so I mutter nonsense. “Well, it’s not really polite to talk about …” I huff in frustration. “That’s not what I meant. I want …”
I can’t seem to summon a logical response. Because I’m upset and angry, whether it’s rational or not.
Because every time I’m reminded of what a fool I was, I feel weak and stupid. And I can’t bear for Cash to see me that way.
Because he felt like mine, but he could’ve been hers. Even though my world is closing in on me, being his was enough to get me through.
He fumes, leering at me, his teeth grinding and agony swimming in his beautiful ocean eyes—pain I put there.
“I can fuck whoever I want, whenever I want, and you won’t say a damn thing about it?” He tilts his head in that daring stance he takes, and then he cages me against the wall.
I don’t answer. I can’t. A tear escapes and trickles down my cheek.
He gathers it on his thumb and deposits it on his tongue, his eyes glued to mine. “The only tears I want to see you shed are when I fuck your throat. I’m assuming I can shove my cock into any mouth I want too, right, Sly?”
In one swift move, he rips my pants down with a growl.