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I blinked at him. I could lie and say yes, but it wasn’t the truth. I’d clearly seen his face and it hadn’t looked like a man on the brink of fantastic sex, or any sex. I chewed my lip, not wanting to answer.
“I think you should go.”
“I made a mistake. A big mistake, Callie. I did what I usually do when I’m in a crisis and it was wrong. Very wrong. I’m sure you feel something. If you’d stayed—”
“Do not make this my fault,” I snapped, pointing a wavering finger at him. “Now, are you going to pay me for these flowers?”
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a note. I snatched it out of his hands. I quickly bound the stems with ribbon and thrust the bunch at him.
He stood holding the bouquet, his eyes startlingly shiny and his chest heaving with rapid breathing. He didn’t speak, but held the flowers out to me.
I shook my head.
“I’m polyamorous, Callie. I have sex with women, casual sex, and there is no emotional attachment to any of them. It’s just the way I am. But you. You are different. Believe me. I thought maybe you were seeking the same, the fucks. Then I saw your face through the glass, the horror in your expression, and I know now you feel something toward me.”
Arrogant bastard. My first reaction nearly spilled out of my mouth. ‘You are a dangerous fox, Stefan. A predator of women.’ A tear trickled down my face.
“Yes, I do—did…feel something and I came last night to tell you. You couldn’t wait, though, could you? You turned me into a game, a piggy in the middle. Polyamorous? A meaningless word. A pathetic excuse for a screwed-up man. I’m not your ruddy tonic. Take your flowers and get out!”
He stumbled backward with an aghast expression. He really had expected me to forgive him, but how could I? I didn’t understand why he needed Magda, but not me. Had I portrayed myself as a strumpet, a woman who sought casual relationships? Surely not.
The bell rang again as he opened the door. He paused on the threshold, as if he wanted to turn and speak again, but he didn’t. I watched him cross the road toward a bus stop. I approached the window and peered between the bunches of display flowers. He held the bouquet out to an elderly woman waiting under the shelter. She hesitated, uncertain of his offering. He smiled, probably saying something charming, and she accepted the bunch. With the flowers gone, he strode down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders slumped.
I shriveled up on the stool behind the counter in a flood of tears, not caring if another customer walked in. That was how Bridget found me. She gave me one of her characteristically claustrophobic bear hugs and put the kettle on.
She asked and I spewed it all in one mammoth monologue—how I’d met Stefan, the sex, the glorious sex, and M
onday night. She listened without commenting until I reached the part about the bouquet then offered me a tissue. I wiped my nose.
“He reminds me of myself,” said Bridget.
I blinked past the tears, surprised by her statement. “You?”
“Oh, yes. Queen of the one-night stands, drifting from one meaningless relationship to another. Never committing. Avoiding romantic claptrap.”
“But you always make out you’re happy?” I sniffed.
“I am. Now. I’m fifty-two, Callie. There is no point in regretting how things turned out, but that doesn’t mean it’s been an easy journey.” She held out the mug of coffee.
I sipped a few mouthfuls. “I don’t know what I feel now.” Truth. Confusion reigned in my head.
“You’ve been dating, what? Just over two weeks? Did you tell him you felt strongly about him?”
I cast my mind back to all those post-sex chats, and that was what they’d been about—sex. I’d avoided wrapping any other emotion around our erotic pastime for fear of what? Another Micah. A man who charmed me into his bed and left me each morning. “No. Probably not.”
“Did you imply anything else? That just having sex was okay?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. All the same, it doesn’t alter the fact he went with another woman.” I put the mug on the counter, my hand trembling uncontrollably.
“I don’t think he deserves you. Mucking about with a pretty girl like you.”
“Magda is beautiful.” I recalled her face through the window. She possessed all those natural features that encapsulated beauty.
“Don’t put yourself down,” said Bridget sharply.
“How can I trust him after this?” I asked, more to myself than Bridget.
“Ask Magda for her side of the story.”
