Her memories with Erik had no accompanying pictures, or friends who had witnessed their relationship. During these long and lonesome years, there was no one with whom to recall happy days or process the devastation of losing him. There was a certain comfort in someone, no matter who it was, remembering with her.
She saw pain cross his features, for sure, followed by an attempt to smile in polite congratulations, but he lost the battle with trying to appear pleased for her and dropped his eyes, staring down at his lap in barely concealed misery.
“So you’re married,” he whispered, the words tight and gravelly.
“No.”
His neck snapped up, his eyes registering surprise, followed briefly by relief and then confusion. “Divorced?”
She clenched her jaw, choosing her words carefully, adding up his meaning: he didn’t realize that Ava Grace was his. He hadn’t put it together. He didn’t know.
For a moment, when he’d whispered her name, Laire was sure it was because he’d put two and two together and realized that she was his daughter, but now she realized that he didn’t know, and a wave of relief made her exhale the breath she’d been holding.
He assumed that she’d been married to Ava Grace’s father. Good. The less he knew about her and Ava Grace, the better. He couldn’t be trusted. He was the worst kind of deceiver, capable of making her believe he truly loved her while he was actually cheating on her every moment they weren’t together.
He doesn’t know, she reassured herself, then decided it would be best to change the subject as quickly as possible, away from their daughter.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“I thought . . . I mean, I heard, a while ago, that you were engaged,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt her to say these words, but the memory of Mrs. Rexford’s revelations bit and stung like they’d happened much more recently than six years ago.
“No,” he said softly.
“What?”
It was her turn to look up quickly, seizing his eyes to ascertain the truth of these words.
“Never.”
Her heart raced as her eyes scanned his. And as far as she could tell, he wasn’t lying. His eyes were fraught from their reunion, yes, but open and clear, his face neutral. But wait. How was it possible that he’d never been engaged? She’d seen him with Van. He was laughing, his arm around her, a big fat rock on her finger. Laire had seen it with her own eyes. And no, she’d never actually seen a news report that he was married to Van, but she’d always assumed it was just a long engagement. He certainly had been engaged. She’d seen it. She knew it was true—
Oh, fuck. Laire! He’s doing it. Right now. Lying to you. Stop believing everything he says! Whatever else happened or didn’t happen, of course he was engaged to Vanessa Osborn at one point in time. He’s just playing games with you . . . like he always did.
His face wasn’t to be trusted.
His words weren’t to be trusted.
There was no point in even sitting here talking to him, because she had no idea what was truth and what was lies, and she had zero interest in getting sucked back into a toxic, poisonous, cancerous conversation with someone who’d already broken her in half once.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
Gathering her strength, she pushed off from the floor and slid back up the door, holding his eyes as she rose to her full height, staring down at him with disgust.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a copy of my key—”
“Fine. I’ll stay here until you get back, and then we can contin—”
“—and then I’m going to bed.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, her words made his brown eyes darken to black, and suddenly, for the first time since running into him, she realized two things:
One, though she’d always known that there was an uncanny similarity between his eyes and Ava Grace’s, now she was struck with the full uniqueness of it. They were the same unusual color. The same deep, dark, soulful brown that turned black when their emotions flared, and for a split second, it made her feel weak to see the resemblance. The man she’d loved so desperately and the child she’d die for had the same eyes. She could get lost in his all over again if she wasn’t careful.
And two, Erik Rexford was even hotter at twenty-seven than he’d been at twenty-one. He was built and big, muscular and strong, his jet-black hair as thick as ever, and the way he was looking at her right now made her traitorous body remember how he’d touched her, how he’d loved her, how she’d writhed in his arms, begging for more. She couldn’t concentrate on this conversation anymore. She needed to get away from him.
“Please excuse me,” she said, though she didn’t turn and start walking down the hall. Her booted feet remained rooted, and her cheeks blazed with sudden heat. She stood there in front of her door, staring down at him, wishing that her attraction to him had died with her dreams.