Something changed in his face.
Not disgust. Not even hesitation, exactly. More like a man who'd just walked into a room and realized he shouldn't be there, looking back at the door he'd left open behind him.
He pulled his hand back slowly. Stepped back. Put space between us.
"Haven."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." His voice was even again. The careful thing was back, sliding into place. "That's the problem."
"Wyatt—"
"Button your jeans."
He may as well have called me a slut, the way it made me feel.
I buttoned my jeans.
Bit my lip.
Told myself not to cry, because that would make him feel worse and make me feel like a child.
"This was a mistake," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have—that was my fault. Not yours."
"I asked for it."
"Haven."
"I asked for every single part of it."
"You're twenty-one years old." He finally looked at me. "And I'm—" He stopped. Shook his head. "This should never have happened.”
"Okay," I said.
Not because I agreed. Not because he'd convinced me of anything. Just because there was nothing left to say that he was ready to hear, and I still had enough pride left to walk away first.
I pushed through the door without looking back.
Amber saw my face immediately. She opened her mouth.
"Don't," I said.
She closed it. Slid a drink across the table.
I sat down. Picked it up. Stared at the middle distance the way he always did, and wondered if this was how he felt all the time—like he was standing just outside of something warm, choosing not to go in.
Probably.
I drank.
TWO
Wyatt
Two nights ago I had my fingers inside Haven Sinclair behind the Spur, and last night I came with her name in my mouth like I had any right to it.
I'd told myself it was just to get it out of my system. That was the lie I'd used at the time. Take the edge off, wake up clear-headed, end of it. Instead I'd lain there after in the dark feeling like I'd done something worse than what I'd already done, which was plenty bad enough.
