“No,” he lied.
“What the hell did you tell her to get her to believe your crap, Ryan?”
He stared at some random point behind her head, determined not to meet those keen blue eyes. “Nothing.”
“Ryan.”
“Jane.”
He nearly jumped when he felt her hands on his chin. She forced him to look at her, her hands warm against his jaw. “What did you say to her?” she asked sternly.
Swallowing, Ryan met her gaze head-on. “I told her I was in love with you.”
She let out a startled expletive. “For God’s sake, Ryan, why the hell would you—” She stopped abruptly, searching his expression. “Oh fuck, you actually believe you meant it.”
Irritation climbed up his body, hardening his chest. “Maybe I did mean it.”
Jane shook her head, the sympathy in her eyes making him wince. Great, she felt sorry for him. How fucking wonderful. “I know we had a little flirtation going when Beck and I broke up all those months ago, but come on, Ry, you’re not in love with me.”
“Maybe I am,” he said roughly.
“No,” she disagreed. “Maybe you think you are, because I’m the first woman you’ve ever opened up to, but we’re best friends and nothing more. Deep down, you have to know that—”
He kissed her. He hadn’t planned on doing it, didn’t think about the consequences either. One second he was looking into her gorgeous blue eyes and the next he was covering her mouth with his. He’d fantasized about this moment for months, wondered how it would feel, how she would taste, but the moment his lips met hers, reality crashed into him like a tidal wave.
“Fuck,” he said hoarsely, quickly breaking the lip contact. He averted his eyes again, ashamed of what he’d just done. He wanted to slap himself, not just for forcing a lip-lock on his best friend, but because he knew now, with total certainty, that he’d just kissed a woman who was the equivalent of a sister he didn’t have.
A woman who rewarded the unwanted contact with an angry scowl. “What. The. Fuck,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry.” He sucked in a ragged breath, cringing when she scooted to the other end of the couch. “I thought—shit, Jane. That was a crappy thing to do.”
“Beyond crappy,” she grumbled. Then, to his extreme surprise, she started to laugh. “Felt rather incestuous, no?”
A laugh slipped out of his own throat. “Uh, to say the least. I’m sorry,” he said again.
Jane’s laughter died, replaced by a long sigh. “I forgive you.” She paused. “Now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, can you please get on a plane back to San Francisco and win back the woman you actually love?”
He hesitated, the idea so tempting he nearly launched himself at the phone to call the airline. But he reined in the futile urge. “No,” he finally said.
“Why not?” She sounded frazzled.
“Because this doesn’t change anything. Maybe I misunderstood my feelings for you, but I know exactly where I stand with Annabelle’s family. Her dad tried to pay me off, for fuck’s sake.”
“Well, screw him,” Jane retorted. “You love Annabelle, not her dad.”
“I don’t belong in her life, Jane,” he said softly.
She sighed again, slowly sliding back toward him. This time when she touched his cheek, her fingers were gentle. “Then you know what that makes you, Ry?”
“What?” he asked hoarsely.
She dropped her hand, the disappointment on her face unmistakable. “It makes you a goddamn fool.”
Chapter Eight
Annabelle spent the morning in her childhood bedroom, trying to figure out what the heck to do. Her heart felt like someone had smashed it with a hammer, and she still couldn’t believe what a fool she’d been, actually believing that she and Ryan had more than a fling going. Somehow, during their two weeks together, she’d fallen for him.
But he hadn’t fallen for her.
She sat down at the edge of the four-poster bed, looking around the bedroom in dismay. Decorated in shades of cream and yellow, the room boasted an antique dresser, a huge desk built into the wall, and a walk-in closet that was bigger than Christina’s bedroom back in San Diego. Everything was neat and pristine—her mother didn’t allow clutter—and, growing up, Annabelle had hated this perfect, impersonal room.