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“How am I looking at you?”
“I can’t read your fucking mind, Drew, I just know I don’t like it.”
He blinks, running his tongue over his lips, still…contemplating… Or whatever.
“Say something!” I shout.
“I don’t get what’s so bad about her,” he finally says. “She seems like exactly your type. Rich, slutty socialite. Got a thing for you. What’s not to want? You never thought you’d wind up with a wife like her? It’s not like you’ve been out there looking for love.”
“How do you know what I’ve been looking for?”
He barks out a harsh laugh. “I know you better than you think, Peach.”
I still don’t get what’s with the Peach thing. Sometimes he says it sexy, and sometimes it comes out as a dig. Like when I call him Jack, but I admit I use Jack as more of a tease lately than the taunt it used to be. I promise I’ve always known his name. I’m actually good with names.
“Fine, I give. I never wanted to marry anyone. At least not in the foreseeable future. But if I did want to marry someone, it would not be someone like me—as you so kindly put it.”
“Really.”
It’s not exactly a question, more of a request for more information. “People ‘like me’ don’t make the best partners.”
“How’s that?”
“Do you really want a lesson in the shallow, yet complex social maneuvers of Manhattan high society?”
“Maybe some other time. I’m pretty beat.”
“Will you be having the usual before bedtime?”
His gaze narrows.
Shit, is he going to turn me down?
“I don’t like this,” he says, making my stomach flip in the most nauseating way possible.
“What?” I hate the way my voice cracks. The way I sound vulnerable.
“Sharing.”
I stare back at him in confusion.
“I don’t like sharing,” he says, like stringing the sentence together will make it make sense.
I point at my chest. “Me?”
“Yeah. You.”
“It’s hardly sharing,” I protest. We basically pinky-swore that what goes on between us means nothing.
He shrugs again.
“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do?” I ask, shrill and amped and afraid he’s about to walk out on me for good.
He considers me a moment and does the worst thing in the world. He picks up his jacket and tie. “Guess you’ll need to put some thought into it.”
I’m around the island with my hands on his arms, gripping tight, as fast as my legs will carry me. “Wait.” I physically turn him in the opposite direction of the door. “You can’t leave.”
“Sure I can. Trains run all day.”
