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I dropped my hands to her hips and gripped them hard, my resolve ready to cave, because I didn’t want to choose.
Sitting back, I raised my weary eyes and slowly peeled the tape from her mouth.
“I’m sorry. I have a meeting,” I told her. “I don’t have time.”
She sat still for a few moments, probably trying to figure out if I was really kicking her out when she knew I just wanted to keep her here.
I’d never not had time for her.
And that was the problem. I’d put her before everything else.
She rose off me, looking everywhere but at me, and walked around the desk, slipping on her coat as fast as she could.
I tightened my hands into fists, feeling like everything inside of me was hollowing out.
She turned to leave but then spun back around. “If you’re pushing me away, just say it. Don’t leave me guessing.”
I clenched my teeth together as I stood up and forced a glare. “I said I have a meeting,” I bit out. “I don’t show up in the middle of your workday, do I?”
Her eyes widened, looking surprised. “Tyler” – she held up her hands – “when a naked woman sits on your lap, offering herself up, you take it. And if you can’t – for whatever reason – you at least say sweet things to her. I can’t believe I —”
“You want to know why I’m aggravated today?” I grabbed my phone and brought up Twitter. “Look at the negative comments on the tweets you’ve been telling me to post,” I shot out. “And this morning someone wrote a blog post calling me ‘immature’ and ‘unprofessional.’?”
I tossed my phone down on my desk, feeling like the walls were closing in. She blinked several times, and I could tell she was caught off guard and hurt.
“You’ve also gained just over five thousand new followers in the past couple of weeks.” Her voice cracked. “The more you put yourself out there, the more negativity you’ll see. That comes with the territory. I was trying to help.”
I planted my hands on the desk and steeled myself, forcing my eyes to stay on her despite the hurt I could see in her eyes. “I didn’t want your help. I just wanted you in bed.”
She pulled back, instantly straightening her posture.
The pain on her face disappeared, her expression turning to stone. “I see.”
She looked just like the Easton at the open house. The one who was cold and distant and far away from me.
“I guess I’ll see you, then,” she said, sounding cordial.
But this was goodbye.
I nodded, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “Yeah.”
She turned and walked out, and I immediately shot out from behind the desk, ready to go after her. But I stopped myself, planting my hands on the desk and bowing my head, trying to calm myself.
Fuck.
I wanted her.
I needed her!
I slammed my fists down. “Goddamn it,” I growled under my breath.
“She really is gorgeous,” I heard behind me, and I recognized Jay’s voice. “Just don’t do it at the office, okay? Be more careful.”
I brought my head up, scowling at him. He must’ve seen her leaving.
“Relax,” I snapped. “It’s over.”
“Why?” he challenged, actually looking concerned. “You were definitely happy. I don’t see anything wrong with it as long as you’re both discreet.”
He slipped some file folders onto my desk, and I shook my head, unable to admit to my brother what I could barely admit to myself.
I looked forward to her. More than anything else.
And I couldn’t put her first anymore.
TWENTY-TWO
EASTON
The cool breeze blew down St. Ann, and I closed my eyes for a moment, enjoying its caress in my hair.
Laurel’s “To the Hills” drifted like a heartbeat through my earbuds, and I soaked in the sun and the wind blowing my off-the-shoulder blouse against my skin.
I’d been strolling all day, playing tourist and enjoying the atmosphere that I rarely took the time to experience even though I’d lived here for more than five years.
It was funny. I’d woken up this morning with a list and a plan. Clean the inside of the stove, work out, and then research field trips for my classes, since we’d been discussing so much war history, and New Orleans had some wonderful sites to visit.
But when I’d gotten dressed, I’d realized I wasn’t in the mood.
I’d crumpled up the list, tossed it in the trash, and grabbed my little bag, which now hung at my hip with the strap across my chest, and walked out of the house.
I took a streetcar to Canal and hopped off, disappearing into the Quarter.
Around the corner from St. Louis Cathedral, with its madness of artists, musicians, and palm readers, I traipsed a block or two to Maskarade, a little shop I’d discovered last Mardi Gras when I was searching for my first mask.
I wasn’t interested in the gaudy souvenirs sold in the French Market or tourist shops. I’d wanted handmade work by real mask makers, and I’d always intended to come back, perhaps to start building a collection for my wall.
When I stepped in, the rough wooden floors creaked under my sandals, and the woman behind the counter smiled at me before returning to her paperwork.
That was one thing I liked about New Orleans.
Merchants didn’t jump on you the second you walked into their establishments.
Masks covered all of the walls but were divided into categories. Leather to the left, then animal-inspired masks and feathered work to the right. Many of the masks were styled simply for male customers, while others were jeweled, glittered, and ornate for even the most audacious buyer.
