Now I just had to tell Weston.
I lowered my head and stared at the buttons on his sweater. He was solid and sexy and sweet, and still he wasn’t the guy I wanted, no matter how much I tried to want him. No matter how much I tried not to want someone else.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
My head snapped up. “I was just going to say the same thing.”
He let go of me and ran his hand through his hair instead. “I’m sorry.” My words registered a moment later. “You were?”
“Yeah. It’s not…” I’m not, was the better phrase. I’m not right for you. You’re not right for me. But maybe that wasn’t the kind of thing meant to be discussed in restaurant closets. “The timing,” I said.
“The timing,” he agreed.
“I’ll go out first.”
When I got back to the table, Donovan was gone. I didn’t bother pretending to myself that I didn’t notice. I was past that. After grabbing my jacket, I thanked Nate for the party, said goodbye and went home. There couldn’t be any more loneliness waiting for me there than there was here.
Eighteen
I was exhausted by the time I reached my building, so I waved to the doorman instead of stopping to give my usual hello. Inside the elevator, I kicked off my heels and leaned against the back of the car and remembered the night I’d gone to Gaston’s with Donovan. Remembered being in an elevator with him. If I hadn’t pushed him away, would he have taken me home that night?
If he had, he’d have fucked me and been done with me. I’d still be alone tonight.
But maybe I’d be over him by now too instead of just finally realizing that I wanted him.
And, oh, did I want him. Like I hadn’t wanted anything in a long time. Like I hadn’t wanted anyone since I’d wanted him back then. Like I’d always wanted him but was too proud to admit.
Some fatalistic part of me was sure that it was a realization that made no difference. Whatever I wanted didn’t matter because I would do what was best, like I always did, and Donovan was not it.
The elevator opened on my floor before I’d reached any conclusions, not that there was anything to conclude, and I trudged barefoot out into the carpeted corridor and froze. Down the hall, standing by the door to my apartment, was Donovan.
For the smallest fraction of a second, less time than it took to inhale a full breath of air, I got excited. I didn’t care if he was there to tell me why Weston was the perfect guy for me or lecture me about not seeing him until he wasn’t engaged. I didn’t care if he was there to ask for my thoughts on Phoenix or the campaign. I didn’t care if he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. He was standing at my door, and that was everything.
But then I remembered that I was mad at him, and the thrill faded. Donovan Kincaid had been an epic asshole. Not only that, but he’d been an epic asshole to me.
With a solemn expression and my eyes forward, I strutted toward my apartment. Even as I refused to look at him, though, I saw him. On the surface, he looked composed and put together like he always did, but there was something about his posture, something about the way his foot tapped and the way his jaw stuck out like it was flexed that suggested he was keyed up.
Well, that made two of us.
“That didn’t take long,” Donovan said when I stopped at my door and pulled my key from my purse.
So he thought I’d hooked up again with Weston. Maybe he actually had been the suit I’d seen outside the closet at Red Farm. Or he’d just put two and two together. He wasn’t dumb.
I wasn’t ready to admit anything, so I simply shrugged. Really, he had balls to bring it up. He had balls to even be here. The only reason he made it past the doorman was because he owned the building.
“You didn’t have your own key?” I asked, half joking as I stuck my key in the lock.
“I would have had to go home for that first,” he muttered.
I twisted my head back to look at him and found he was serious. He really had a key at his place? Wasn’t that something the building manager took care of? I felt twisted up inside to think that Donovan had the very real ability to walk into my place whenever he felt like it.
I felt even more twisted up to realize how near he was standing behind me, so near that another slight shift of my body would bring me into his arms. My eyes traced a path from his Adam’s apple up his throat and over his jawline to his mouth… Would he taste like sin and scotch, secrets and sweat?
What would it take to make me stupid enough to find out?
“Thank you, I guess, for waiting for me instead.” I pushed my shoulder against the door and stepped inside when it opened.
Surprise, surprise, he followed.
“By all means, come on in,” I said, switching on the light, not sure anymore if my irritation was feigned or real. I wanted him here—I just wanted him here for me, not for some other nonsensical agenda he’d concocted.
He closed the door with his foot and trailed behind me as I turned on lights and made my way to the coat closet.
“Are you going to tell me anything?” he asked while I hung my jacket on a hanger.
My eyebrows furrowed. “About Weston?” So that was honestly why he was here. I was irritated. And hurt, which was stupid. “You want all the details? Pictures too?”
I threw my purse on the dining room table and breezed past him into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I took a long cold swallow, imagining how good it would feel to throw the whole thing in Donovan’s face.
Correction—Donovan’s smug face. His shoulders had relaxed visibly in the past few seconds and his expression had gone from agitated to confident.
“Nothing happened, did it,” he said, like it was a statement, so sure he was of the answer.
Fuck him for being so sure.
And fuck him for being so ridiculously sexy while we were at it.
This was impossible. I was thirsty but not for what I was drinking. There was only one thing I wanted to taste on my lips, and if I couldn’t have that then I didn’t want anything.
I slammed the bottle on the counter, exasperated. “Why are you here?”
He crossed his arms in front of him. “Because I can’t not be. Are you going to meet up with him later?”
I considered dicking him around, but I was tired of the games. All of them—his and mine.
“I’m not,” I said. “But guess what. It’s not any of your business. None of this is. And yet you keep showing up, playing God like it’s your job. Thinking you know best what everybody wants.”
“You don’t want Weston.” Matter-of-fact. Plain light of day. No room for arguments. He said it like it was reality as we knew it.
And I about went off.
“Oh my god, I can’t…” With my hands to my heart, I pushed past him to get into the living room. I needed space. Did he even hear himself?
Spinning back toward him, I pointed accusatorily in his direction. “For weeks now you’ve been trying to convince me that I do want Weston.”