Page 32 of Wait for Him

What the fuck is happening to me?

The door opens behind me before I can put myself back together. It’s a damn family restroom, so my brilliant escape plan has approximately zero legal standing, and when I look into the mirror, Jackson is standing behind me.

His face is flushed. Sweat beads along his forehead and neck; his hair is disheveled; his bow tie is hanging loose, and his shirt isn't completely tucked in anymore.

Freshly fucked.

The thought is vicious enough that I look away.

“I'm sorry you walked in on that.”

I swipe beneath my eyes before any more tears can ruin my makeup. “It's none of my business.”

“Wait.” His brows pull together as he looks at me properly. “What's happening? Why are you... Rose, why are you crying?”

He moves toward me, concern immediately replacing whatever embarrassment he walked in with, and I step backward so quickly that he stops.

I can’t even let him touch me.

Not right now. Not when I can still see another woman's hands on him and know that somewhere beneath the smell of his cologne she's probably still on his skin. The thought of him putting those hands on me makes jealousy and nausea twist together so violently that I have to swallow.

He's not yours, Rose.

I straighten my dress and force everything back into the place where it belongs. “I'm fine. Please, just go back to your date. You know that aftercare is important.”

His expression changes. “She's gone.”

I look at him despite myself. “Already?”

“It wasn't like that.”

The anger comes so fast I barely recognize it until it's already leaving my mouth.

“So what, you just fuck 'em and leave 'em now? Is that who you are?”

Jackson actually recoils.

Good. He should. Because what the fuck am I saying?

My breathing is getting heavier, heat climbing up my chest and into my face, and I have no idea why I'm angry at him for sleeping with a consenting woman when I have spent years making absolutely certain he understands he owes me nothing.

“No. Yes. I mean...” He drags a hand through his hair, visibly trying to figure out which question he's answering. “She came onto me. We were both into it. It was what it was for tonight. But why the fuck are you this upset?”

“I'm not upset.”

He looks pointedly at my face.

“You're crying.”

“I am not crying.”

“Rose. There are literal goddamn tears on your face.”

I wipe them away angrily. “There. Problem solved.”

“No, it's not.” He takes another step toward me, slower this time. “Talk to me.”

“There is nothing to talk about.”