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On their way back to the large SUV, Tate slid his hand up Havana’s back and cupped her nape. “Come back to my place.”
She looked at him, her expression guarded. “Why?”
“I want to be alone with you.”
She looked at the floor and then gave a slow nod. “Okay.”
He squeezed her nape. “Okay.”
A complete bag of nerves, Havana waited as Tate unlocked his front door. Her muscles felt all twitchy. There would be nothing smooth or easy about this conversation. Nothing simple or painless about putting herself out there when the only thing she’d get in return would be an “oh shit” look. But Aspen was right. Tate would back off if he knew that he’d otherwise mislead Havana into thinking he wanted a relationship. He was too good a guy to play with her like that.
Obviously intending to give them privacy, Luke and Farrell settled on the porch swing.
Tate opened his front door and gestured for her to enter first. She reluctantly stepped inside, feeling like she was walking to her doom, and allowed him to shepherd her into his living room. The space was both masculine and stylish—deep neutral tones, dark woods, tan leather, sturdy furniture, sleek and straight lines, simple detailing, no frills or accessories.
He came up behind her, slid his hands up her arms, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “You’ve been very quiet. You okay?”
“No.” She stepped away from him and turned to face him. Tight as a drum, she bit her lip, dredging up the courage to confess the truth.
He ate up the space between them in one stride and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t let what that bastard said play on your mind. He’s not going to get to you.”
“It’s not about Gideon.”
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
She took a deep, preparatory breath. “You were right that I didn’t give you the full reason why I decided we need to go our separate ways.”
He cocked his head. “You gonna tell me the rest?”
“Yes. Just be warned that you’re not going to like what you hear.”
He backed her toward the sofa. “Then let’s get comfortable while we have this conversation.”
“That’s not—” She cut off as she plopped onto the sofa.
Tate sat beside her, twisted his body to fully face her, and splayed his hand on her thigh. “Right, go on.”
“First, I need to tell you about Dieter.”
A line briefly formed between his brows. “All right.”
“I’ve known him for a while. We never had a typical bed-buddy arrangement. We had a fling at first. Then he went traveling, so we ended it. He goes traveling a lot. And whenever he was both local and single, he’d turn up, looking to hook up. That went on for too long, but I let it, because I cared about him.”
Realizing he’d involuntarily clenched her thigh, Tate relaxed his grip. He didn’t want to know she’d cared about another man, and he wondered if it was truly a case of “past tense.” His cat slowly paced, wary of where the conversation was going.
“I thought he had to care about me if he kept coming back again and again,” she went on. “I thought maybe he just needed time before he was willing to offer me something more. But about six months ago, he gave that ‘more’ to someone else. I’m not mad at him for that. He didn’t purposely hurt me—he didn’t even know I cared about him. It still hurt, though. So when you proposed having a short, shallow fling where I wouldn’t have to give anything of myself, it suited me.”
“But you end your flings early now so that you don’t make the mistakes with others that you made with Dieter,” Tate assumed.
“How I wish that were the case. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment or something, but I made the same fuck up with you.” A somewhat self-depreciating smile touched her mouth. “Yeah, I came to want more.”
Tate could only stare at her, at a loss for what to say. Even his cat stilled in surprise.
“I could see that you didn’t feel the same—one thing I can say for you, Tate, is that you never gave me mixed signals. I didn’t misread them. I just took a chance and gave you some time because I’m that stupid.” She swallowed. “I’m done being stupid.”
He closed his eyes. “Havana—”
“You were right when you said I wasn’t ready to walk away. I’m not. But I have to do it, Tate.”
Cursing beneath his breath, Tate jumped to his feet and scrubbed a hand down his face. The same feeling he’d gotten when she first ended their fling came rushing back—the sensation of her slipping through his fingers, of him losing something important. The cord of panic returned, too, and wrapped tight around his lungs once again.
