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Then it dawns on me.
What if my scars grossed him out?
I felt his gaze on them when I removed his shirt before he left. Is that what happened? My tears fall faster, and anger vibrates within me. If so, fuck him. I am more than my scars, and I won’t allow him to make me self-conscious of them. I survived, I got out of that fucking cult, and I got my sisters out. I’m the heroine of my story, and I don’t need anyone. I don’t need him. I don’t need anything.
Fuck. Him.
I swipe the tears from my face again, fury coursing through me. I want to call Eliza, or even Austen, but I’m not ready to admit what happened, or even what I assume is the reason he doesn’t want me. Fucking asshole. Tears burn in my eyes, falling in heaps, and I hate myself for it. Why am I crying? I cried enough when my ex beat me with his belt. When I got Austen out, when I got Eliza and Elliot out, and then when Clara was finally free of them. When my mom stood there and watched not only my ex abuse me, but her husband, and she didn’t protect me. I have cried enough; no one deserves my tears. Especially not some guy who obviously doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it.
I wipe them away, blistering with anger as I force myself to get up. I will not sit here and cry over him. I won’t let his lack of need for me affect my life. I have things to do, I have a business to run, and hell, I could go see my sisters.
I’m good. I’m fucking great.
As I tuck the rest of the preorder slips in the front of each of the books, my heart aches. I really wanted something with him. I did like him, and it was more than sex. I may not know everything about him, but the excitement of learning all those things made me giddy. Now…now, I’m just mad. I’m mad that I feel like I wasn’t enough. I’m pissed that I think it’s my scars, and I’m offended that I still want him.
God, I want him.
I’m so dumb.
I walk toward one of the bookcases, the front one where I want the new release’s extra copies to go. I climb the ladder, making room on the top so I can shift books up to create an open space at eye level. When the bell over the door dings, I want to scream since dealing with someone right now is the last thing I want to do.
“Welcome to Dirty—” My words cut off when I look over my shoulder to find Ciaran shutting the door behind him.
God, he’s beautiful. In a dark-blue suit that fits his body like a glove and stretches tightly along his thighs. He’s wearing an orange tie, and he didn’t shave this morning. His scruff is sexy, just as he is. His hair is brushed to the side, but what has me breathless is the purely tortured look on his angelic face. My mouth goes dry as my mind reels in confusion.
I step down, my hands shaking as I guide myself off the ladder. I turn, meeting him with a seething look. I wasn’t ready nor prepared to see him. Unable to control myself, I spit, “So, what? You called this off between us while you sat outside?” His eyes darken, but he doesn’t look away, his gaze unyielding as he nods. I don’t know why that makes me even more upset. “That’s super cute. Your book is by your chair. Excuse me while I work.”
He doesn’t move, nor does he say anything. His eyes are on me, making me feel all kinds of things. Uncertainty, nervousness, irritation, and a fluttering feeling in my stomach that I’ve become accustomed to when I’m under his gaze. Anger bristles within me. “What are you doing here?” I ask. I should kick him out; it’s my shop.
“I couldn’t do it.”
“What?”
“I had to talk to you, face-to-face.”
I bring my brows in, confused. “You talked, I listened. We’re good.”
“No, we’re not,” he tells me, his eyes swirling with anxiety.
“I don’t get it. I don’t know what you’re doing here or even what you need to say. You’ve said enough.” He takes a step toward me, and I hold up my hands, stopping him mid-step. “Don’t.”
He swallows before licking his lips. My stomach clenches at the sight, remembering what it felt like to have that tongue on me. Jesus, how can I be thinking that when he doesn’t even want me? “Louisa?—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Damn it, my heart is trying to escape my body. Honestly, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help asking, “Tell me this. Is it because of my scars?”
His eyes widen before he presses his lips together. “Louisa?—”
“Don’t placate me. Be honest. Are you disgusted by me? Is that why?—”
I don’t even realize he’s moving again before he’s in front of me. He reaches for me but stops, his eyes burning into mine. “Can I touch you?”
I shake my head. Tension cracks between us, and my heart is pounding so hard, it’s painful, but I refuse to stand down. I need to know the truth. I need to know I didn’t romanticize this. That he felt it all, just as I did. Even though it feels like every nerve ending is exposed, I have to know.
“Answer the question.”
CHAPTER 21
Ciaran
