He has to be the choice, and the only way I’ll know for sure is if I make it.
When the song ends, I walk to the stereo and play it again, swaying and humming to the painful lyrics while thinking about Trace.
I dance in mourning for the hurt I inflicted on him. I dance in longing for the love I share with him. I dance in fear for the words that will rip him away.
With my back to the door and my emotions running amok, I don’t sense him approach. Not until his hand curls around my hip and his forehead rests against the back of my head.
Everything inside me starts to melt.
Don’t give in, Danni. You must do this.
Against all instinct, I force myself to go cold, emotionally, mentally, pushing him away.
His hand slides down my thigh, tracing the hem of my spandex shorts. I tense up, and he notices, removing his touch.
My stomach shrivels, but I keep my voice even. “Do you want to talk…about the other night?”
“No.” He prowls around me, hands behind his back, and ensnares me in his analyzing gaze.
Fitted black trousers and a crisp white button-up, his attire is as sophisticated as his composure. The way he scrutinizes me, the subtle sharpening of those incisive eyes, it’s as if he already knows.
My resolve weakens, and I consider waiting until tomorrow. Or the next day. But the longer I delay, the harder it will become. It’s now. Right now. Open your mouth, idiot.
Shifting to the stereo, I power off the music. Then I turn back, standing taller, and fix my expression into one of bravery. “I want to talk—”
“I want you to remove your clothes and whatever is putting that fake look on your face.”
Cold bones, hunched shoulders, hemorrhaging heart, I wither beneath his command. My brave mask gives way to rising tears, and I step back, clasping my throat and fighting down the anguish.
He glares at my trembling hand, my leaky eyes, and his entire demeanor changes. His arms fall slack at his sides. His scowl loses its intensity, and he shakes his head slowly, imperceptibly, as if in shock. Denial.
I wipe the wet misery from my cheeks and hug my waist. “Trace…”
He snaps straight, and his eyes bore into mine as his words echo in my mind.
If you know, we’ll all know. And that will be that.
“Say it.” Harsh and guttural, his voice cuts me to the quick.
My throat seals up, holding the confession captive.
I’m a heartless bitch if I choose Cole. I’m a heartless bitch if I choose Trace. I’m the queen of all bitches if I don’t choose at all.
I made a decision. It’s time to grow up. Declare it. Fight for it.
Pulling in a serrated breath, I release my lungs slowly. “I choose Cole.”
He goes chillingly still, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink, his stark eyes locked on mine. He wants to argue. It’s right there in the rigidness of his jaw. The impulse to demand a different answer is eating him up inside. But more than that, he wants what he cannot control.
I refuse to force your hand on this…I want your heart to beat for me and only me, not because I command it, but because we’re meant to be.
I know the moment he accepts my choice. His throat bobs. His chest heaves, and he stumbles back.
The look of total devastation on his face tears me apart. His pain is scarring, like the sharp edge of a knife leaving its marks inside me.
He glances around the room like he’s unsure where to go or what to do. Stunned, lost, he’s beautiful, fractured perfection.
“Trace…” I approach him, dying a thousand deaths. “Say something.”
He stabs a hand in his hair and spins toward the door. Then he walks out.
I run after him, chasing him down the hall and through the bedroom. I scan the rooms for Cole, but the house is quiet. He must still be down at the dock.
“Please, talk to me.” I follow Trace into his closet.
He shrugs on a suit jacket, buttoning away his emotions behind expensive threads. His hands shake as he yanks random clothes off the hangers and shoves them into a leather bag.
“You’re leaving?” My heart crashes into my shoes.
Of course, he’s leaving. What else is he supposed to do?
He doesn’t answer me, doesn’t look my way as he continues to pack. I gulp down a sob, refusing to give it life. I’m hurting him irreparably. I don’t deserve to cry.
“It can’t end like this.” I reach for his arm and think better of it. “We have to talk about it.”
“It must end this way. A clean cut.” He slides past me, bag in hand, and strides out of the bedroom.
I follow him into the living room. He grabs his keys from the kitchen island and heads toward the front door. His car is parked in the driveway, a twenty-second walk away. Twenty seconds is all we have left.
“Trace, stop!” The shrill in my voice announces my desperation. “Please. Wait.”
The slowing of his gait lets me know he’s considering. The pause of his feet at the door tells me he’s analyzing the risks of hearing what I have to say.
He enters the code in the keypad, grips the door handle, and drops his arm. Then he turns and faces me.
My breath catches at the agony tightening his face. He stands twenty feet away, his eyes wet and drowning in heartache.
Tears lurk at the backs of my own eyes, but I hold them at bay.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I approach slowly and pause a few paces away. Then I let him read my expression, let him delve deep into my eyes as I tell him without words everything I need to say.
I will always, always love you, and I will never forget. I won’t forget the taste of your scowl, the way it curved against my mouth when we kissed, our lips rough with passion. I won’t forget how you watched over me and saved my life, how you gave me your love when I didn’t believe in second chances. I won’t forget the stage you erected for me, the heat of your eyes on my body in the beam of light, and the adoration in your voice when you talked about my dancing. I won’t forget your bed in the penthouse, our bodies tumbled together, your hand, my throat, your jawline, my fingers, the caress of your brush through my hair, your orderliness, your control, your un-creamy coffee, the scent of scotch on your breath, the infinity pools of your eyes, and the depths of you, who showed me how to smile again.
A tear escapes, and I brush it off my cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Danni Angelo.” His timbre is quiet, shaky. “I gave you my heart. It was always yours to break.”
I shake my head rapidly, battling an impending meltdown. “I didn’t want to—”
“Shhh.” He looks down, squeezes his eyes shut. “It was always going to come down to a choice. I knew that, and I don’t regret a single second.”
The back door opens, and Cole walks in, yanking a beanie off his head, his leather jacket soaked from the rain. He glances up and spots us standing by the front entrance. Then his gaze zeroes in on the bag in Trace’s hand.