He stays stoic, his expression giving nothing away. I want so badly to touch him, to grab the hand flexing at his side, but it feels selfish. I’d be doing it to comfort myself as much as him, and that’s not fair to him.
He’ll barely look at me. “I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I told you things I never tell anyone, and you just lied to my face over and over again. You’ve lied about everything since the day we met!”
“That’s not true. I lied about stupid things, like needing chaperones for our dates and knowing how to roast a chicken. Not the things that matter.” My phone starts ringing again and I curse, pulling it out and glancing at the display—Nat, unsurprisingly—before shutting it off completely and tossing it back in my purse.
“Why should I believe a word you say?” There’s pain in his voice now, defeat, which somehow feels worse than his anger. Like I’m losing him.
Desperation seizes me. “Because it’s the truth! Jack, the second I knew I had feelings for you, real feelings, I called the whole thing off. I told Cynthia I refused to go through with it. I told her she could fire me.”
He continues to shake his head, saying nothing, and I throw my arm toward the ballroom.
“You don’t believe me? Go in there and ask her! Go find Cynthia and ask her when I walked away from the story. It was weeks ago, Jack. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? That you only lied half the time?” He drags a hand through his hair and strides a few paces away before turning back again. “Jesus, Cassie, were you ever going to tell me the truth?”
“I don’t know,” I say miserably, hating this. Hating myself. “Would you have forgiven me?”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. We both know the answer.
“Jack, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying to you and betraying your trust, and for giving you reason to doubt that what I’m telling you now is anything but the truth. You have every right to be angry with me. But don’t you remember what you said to me before, about Brett and the whole Saturdays thing? You said, ‘How can I be sorry for it when it brought us together?’ Well, I feel the same way. I’m sorry but I’m also not sorry, because without this stupid story I never would have seen you again after the night we met in that bar. I would’ve cursed your name and walked out of there and never looked back. I would never have gotten to know you. I would never have learned what an amazing man you are. I would never . . .”
I hesitate, my voice faltering, and I nearly lose my nerve, but I’m determined to get this out. I owe him at least that much.
I swallow and meet his gaze, clear-eyed. “I would never have fallen in love with you.”
Chapter 16
I watch him absorb my declaration, a medley of emotions reflected in his eyes: surprise, relief, wonder, then hesitation. Or maybe it’s doubt. Maybe he doesn’t believe me.
This time, I do reach out and touch him. I step forward and take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. I need to lay it all out there for him.
“I tried so hard not to love you, but you swept me off my feet anyway, with your silly board games and your cheesy pickup lines and your chivalry. With your patience and your generosity and your good heart.” I smile at him, feeling my soul rattling around in my chest. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating to make myself this vulnerable. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it, isn’t it? I gave myself three dates to bring you down, but I’m the one who fell.” I laugh wryly. “Pretty damn inconvenient of you to be the man I’ve been searching for my whole life.”
His eyes flare, and I raise our joined hands and place his palm on my chest, letting him feel my racing heartbeat. “I’ve been just as scared of loving you as I’ve been of losing you, but I realize now that I’ve never been in control of either one. I can stand here and tell you I love you and you could still walk away, and I’d have to accept that.” I curl my fingers around his and squeeze. “But I hope I won’t have to.”
His silence is excruciating. He’s staring at me, his eyes full of emotion, but I’m not a mind reader. Is anything I’m saying affecting him? He can’t possibly think I’d lie about this, can he?
“Say something,” I implore him. “Please, I don’t care what it is. Yell at me, curse at me, tell me you hate me, I’ll sit here and take it if—”
My words cut off when he steps forward, taking my face in his hands and crashing his lips against mine. The force of it backs me up several steps, my spine hitting the wall behind me, but the discomfort barely registers because I’m so overwhelmed with emotion, so overcome with relief and hope and hunger for him. I cling to him, kissing him back passionately, thoroughly, roughly, desperate to show him how much I love him—but this time as me, with no secrecy or deceit standing in our way.
It’s like all our restraint, all the lust we’ve kept banked is unleashed in a torrent, the dam broken, his mouth claiming mine as his hands slide possessively over my skin, moving anywhere and everywhere, like he doesn’t know where to start. I fist my hands in his shirt, wishing I could get my paws on the bare skin of his torso, but he’s so tightly bound up in his suit and tie that I can’t defile him the way I want to. I want to rip his shirt open at the placket and send buttons flying. I want to savagely muss his hair until it looks like it’s never seen a brush. I want to shuck off his pants and see if what’s underneath is as impressive up close as it feels pressed against my stomach. I want to climb his body like it’s my own personal jungle gym.
I whimper into his mouth. All of my long-suppressed sexual energy needs an outlet, and the clock has timed out on my patience. My body is locked between him and this wall and it is not working for me. I need to be let loose, wild and untethered, free to ravage him the way I’ve longed to for months.
I think he must crack my unspoken code because one minute I’m nibbling his neck and panting into his ear and the next we’re in a hotel room, like it’s Bewitched and all I have to do is wiggle my nose to magically teleport myself to another location. (Realistically, it likely had more to do with my impatient hands fumbling at his belt buckle and his desire to keep us from being arrested for lewd and lascivious conduct, but, you know, details.)
My arms are wrapped around his midsection from behind, my cheek pressed between his shoulder blades as he keys us into the room. I let go of him so he can shrug off his jacket, then head to the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes so I can take in the view. There’s nothing quite like the city at night: bright and dazzling, with glittering lights as far as the eye can see. “Wow,” I murmur.