“I’m sure he’d disagree,” she snapped. But there was something more than anger in her eyes. A flicker of pain. It was probably always there, but he’d chosen to ignore it. Like the lies he’d told, it waseasierin the moment than to do the right thing. He stepped toward her. “I owe you an apology. I’ve owed it to you for a long time. I thought, if we kept this casual thing going, somehow it’d make up for the fact that I wasn’t brave enough to tell you the truth. I should’ve been more careful with your heart when we were together, and I regret that I wasn’t.”
She stared at him for a few tortuous seconds, thumbhovering over the call button. Then, miraculously, she slipped the phone back into her pocket. Leaning on her heels, she roughly swiped a thick black mascara tear that streaked her reddened cheek.
“Why now?” she demanded. “All this time, you’ve been sitting on this revelation? You met somebody else, and then?—”
“Look,” he started. “I fucked up, and I’m trying to be better. About a lot of things. I’ve neverreallybeen with somebody, but I want to try. I need to. And I want that for you too.”
“So why not me?” She laughed bitterly. “What didn’t I do? Or say. Or give? We were so good together, things were—we could have made it, you know? The way I felt about you was real.”
Jamie shook his head, unsure of what to say. “Do you really believe that though? With our teams telling us what to say, where to go. It wouldn’t have…I couldn’t give that to you.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but she didn’t.
“Kendall, I’m truly sorry.”
Unexpectedly, she stepped forward, arms slipping beneath his. She gripped his shoulder blades. “Deep down, I knew it too,” she rasped into his chest. “It’s just that, I wanted it to be real. So fucking bad. And I’ve wanted to hear you say you’re sorry for so long. It’s been burning me up inside. I was so angry. But—I wanna move on. I think I needed to hear you say it.”
He let her cry in his arms, let her feel what she needed to feel, until they said their good-byes and her waiting SUV’s taillights faded into the dust.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Brinton bunched the spread towel between her knuckles. As the midday sun caressed her naked body, it was no match for the intensifying heat filling her belly and between her thighs. A familiar tightening that affirmed she was so, so close.
As her back pressed into the swimming platform, waves lazily lapping its edge,
Brinton’s thighs trembled against the plush terry cloth. Her hips shot forward with the force of a bullet. Jamie’s broad shoulders parted her legs while his greedy lips, tongue, and fingers performed sorcery. She didn’t consider the top of a man’s head especially beautiful, but how he moved—Jamie’s was a damn masterpiece.
Teeth bruising her bottom lip, she grunted through each thrilling wave that crashed over her. Thankfully, he was steadfast in his delicious torture. Enough to take herright to the edge, then pulling back when she violently shuddered. Why didn’t she let this man ruin her sooner?
Clank.
She couldn’t place the sound’s origin or speak coherentlyas her orgasm barreled toward her with Tasmanian Devil–gusto.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
“Don’t you hear?—”
He glanced up with an appropriately devilish grin. “No, but this is the part where you wake up.”
As endorphins threatened to rip her in two, she screeched, “Wait—what?”
Brinton opened her eyes, then bolted upright. She was safely in bed, inside the guest house’s quiet confines on a still-dark Saturday morning. Five days had passed since Jamie’s birthday, and she’d barely seen him. He’d been finalizing the album, shooting photos for hisLandmarkspread, and in marathon meetings with the label. This did, however, give her some much-needed time to write and join Sammi for surprisingly humbling Dolly Parton–themed Zumba classes.
Every night though, he’d stopped by to kiss her good-night. Still, she’d missed him. So much that even her subconscious had conspired against her. She was desperate for skin-on-skincontact. Then she remembered their no-sex pact, simultaneously the smartest and stupidest thing she’d ever agreed to.
Worse yet, she was leaving Iris in two days.
The article was nearly done, meaning it was only a matter of time before they could allow themselves to explore every facet of their bodies. She wanted him, she was sure, but would he want her if he knew how fragile she really was?
Eli was the last person Brinton slept with. While it had been over a year ago, the memory still haunted her. That night, she had lain in bed for hours, nauseous from another spiraling migraine. Eli had gone to a friend’s party in DUMBO. She couldn’t stand upright without wanting to vomit, let alone have the energy to watch him and his trustfund posse debate whether Apple or Facebook was the bigger disrupter—the original chicken-or-the-egg conundrum.
At some point amid her fever dream, Eli had climbed into bed beside her, snaked an arm around her limp body, and pulled her close. He smelled like stale cigarettes and Baccarat Rouge 540. This wasn’t the first time he had come home smelling like another woman. Brinton should have been furious, but did she have the right when she couldn’t show up for him, like someone with fewer sensitivities?
“How are you feeling?” His breath scorched her clammy neck.
“I’m in a lot of pain. I can’t sleep.”
“Everyone asked about you. They’re starting to think I made you up.” Eli had dropped that line so frequently that it deserved a laugh track in the shit-com that was their relationship. He slowly stroked her waist with his free hand, which made her teeth clench. “I thought about you in the cab the whole way home…”
