But I waited too long. As I cross the ballroom, her eyes dart from me to her mother and back again. Then she very coolly, very deliberately, turns her back on me.
If this was any other day or if I hadn’t just seen proof of her exposure to Brogan, I might be tempted to ignore her very obvious No Trespassing signs. But today is what it is—it’s the day I woke up to see that I had all but savaged her while we made love and it’s the day I saw a picture of Brogan’s filthy hands all over the young girl she once was. If she’s putting up walls then I’m damn well going to respect them.
And so I don’t finish crossing the ballroom. I don’t approach her. I don’t even side-eye the many men—and a few women—who are very obviously vying for the chance to warm her bed tonight.
I head out instead, handing my ticket to the valet at the front door. I’m one of the last to arrive—and one of the first leaving despite the late hour—so he’s back with my rental car in only a couple of minutes. The small BMW looks out of place amid the Ferraris and Bentleys, but instead of bothering me as it would some in this town, it actually amuses me. At least until my phone buzzes and I glance down to see that Veronica has texted me an address. No explanation, no invitation, not even a time to show up. Just an address in Manhattan Beach and a number I can only assume is a gate code.
I stare at it for long seconds, trying to decide if it means what I think it does. I can’t help thinking that I’m getting ahead of myself, but when I turn to look up at the ballroom in an attempt to find an answer to a question I’ve barely let form, I see her. She’s on the balcony, leaning against the wrought iron with her hair blowing gently in the wind as she looks down at me.
I glance back at my phone, think about texting her to ask what the hell is up. But before my thumb can so much as press the first key, she’s gone and I’m left staring up at an empty balcony and wondering how the fuck the guy with all the research is also the one constantly standing around trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Chapter 20
It takes me a lot longer to get out of the house after the party than I planned on—like close to two hours more. But Mom took forever saying goodbye to people and then she wanted to do a full party postmortem, no matter how many times I promised her we’d do it, when we met for breakfast on her actual birthday. I only escaped because I told her if she kept me any longer I was going to fall asleep behind the wheel—and even then she tried to talk me into staying the night at the house.
But I don’t sleep in that house. Ever. And she knows it, too, which is why she took my refusal fairly well despite the number of times she brought up the idea. And by fairly well I mean she pouted only for about five minutes. That’s pretty much a record for her.
By the time I’m finally on the road to Manhattan Beach, it’s a little after three in the morning and I figure Ian is long gone. No matter how much he wants me, there’s no way he sat outside my house for more than an hour and a half. Especially without knowing for sure that the address I gave him actually belonged to me.
I’m still not sure why I did it when I’ve made it such a point not to invite anyone to my home. I can tell myself it’s because I don’t want to be alone tonight, that between the bathtub and the garden I don’t trust myself not to do anything else crazy. But while that might be true, I also know that it’s much more than that, too.
The minute he waltzed me out to that balcony and apologized, I knew we were going to end up in bed again.
I don’t know what’s going on between us—or even if there is an us. All I know is that I can breathe when Ian’s touching me, really breathe, in a way I haven’t been able to for far too long. When he’s got me tied to the bed and all of his attention is on me, I feel safe. In control. Like I can handle whatever the world dishes out to me.
It’s only when it’s over, when I’m back in my own head—or he’s back in his—that things go wrong.
Since I invited him to my home this time, I’m hoping that maybe neither one of us will kick the other one out once the sex is done. Maybe we’ll even be able to have breakfast together in the morning.
That is if he defied all reason and actually waited for me.
I tell myself not to be disappointed, assure myself that it will be okay if he’s gone once I get home. It’s beyond rude to expect him to wait this long for me, especially without so much as a follow-up message. And though all of those things are true, when I turn onto my street I still make a point of stopping at the guard shack instead of cruising straight through the gate.