Page 73 of Heartbreaker

“I had it covered.”

“He lunged in your direction.”

“He wasn’t going to do anything. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for a while, and I can read people. But even if he was, I had it covered,” I say, irritation still prevalent in my veins. “I was here because I needed to find out information, Rome.”

“You’re here as my girlfriend. It would have been nice if you weren’t flirting with my biggest rival,” he says, and his words hit me like a slap. My steps falter, and I blink as if he did, in fact, slap me. To his credit, when he looks at me, his face is full of guilt, realizing instantly he crossed the line.

“Lana, fuck⁠—”

“I’d like to go home,” I murmur, my stomach churning as my steps quicken, taking me to his car. The door is locked, and he looks at me over the hood.

“Lana, baby, please⁠—”

“I need some time, Rome,” I say softly, afraid that if I speak too much, the emotions of the day will take over. Unlike him, I want to watch my words to make sure I don’t say something I can’t take back. He stares for a moment before sighing and nodding, then unlocking the door. He doesn’t say anything as I buckle in or as he starts the car, but before he backs out, he looks over at me.

“Lana?” he asks, and I turn to look at him. His own eyes seem to glimmer just a bit with unshed tears before he clears his throat. “Can I at least hold your hand?”

Something in my chest eases, a boulder shifting as I can finally breathe again. I welcome this moment in time where the world almost feels normal, where I feel like we can get over this. A rough patch is to be expected, since this is all so new to him, not to mention we’re starting this relationship up during a stressful time for both of us. I give him a small smile, then nod. Relief washes over his face as he slides his fingers between mine, squeezing tight before driving us out of the parking lot.

We’re silent as we drive. I try to collect my thoughts, to organize and sort through them. I try to think of a dozen ways to approach this conversation with understanding and kindness, but before I can, something very different tumbles from my lips.

“I told you I could fight my own battles,” I confess, voice nearly silent. His hands grip the wheel tighter, and his jaw goes tight. “Before we were even together, I told you that. You agreed, you said you understood.”

“This was different, Lana,” he says, but I shake my head.

“Not to me.” That lump in my throat grows as I look out of the windshield. “This is my job, Rome. This is what I do. I’m working, and your jealously messed with that.”

“Because I stopped him when he lunged at you?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

“Because you didn’t trust me to handle it myself.”

“This isn’t about trust, Lana.”

“It is to me, Rome. Because I need to trust that when you and I aren’t together, you aren’t going to be fighting with random assholes who push your buttons. I need to know that if I’m on a job, that you’re not going to get pissed if you see me talking to someone⁠—”

“You weren’t just talking to someone. He was propositioning you.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but not the urge to spit out my next words.

“Yeah, and for two hours, you were wandering around flirting with women and cheesing it up. Fist-bumping everyone, laughing, and chatting.”

“Is that what this is?” he asks, his voice somehow cruel in a way I’ve never encountered. “That I didn’t give you enough attention?” I look at him as if I’ve never seen him, because in a way, it feels that way.

“This is about you being a completely different person today,” I say.

“I wasn’t a different person, Lana. I was me. This is me at Indy.” My stomach drops with his words and what they mean for our future.

“Well, then, when we get back, this isn’t going to work,” I say, the words grating through a tight throat. I barely notice as he turns onto the street the hotel is on—our drive is almost done. I simultaneously want it to last forever and am desperate to get out of this vehicle, feeling suffocated by the tension.

“Is that a threat?” he asks, sounding irritated. I don’t look over at him, not sure I’d want to see what’s written on his face. Instead, I shake my head, face remaining as neutral as I can manage.

“No, Rome. It’s me telling you I can’t be with someone who changes themselves every five seconds, someone who is completely different from room to room. I need someone I can rely on, and if you can’t be that, then this isn’t going to work. Especially if you’re not even willing to acknowledge it.” He puts the car into park and turns to me. I think for a moment he’s going to apologize, to agree, something to tell me this isn’t a lost cause, but then he breaks my heart when I didn’t even realize I had given him that power.

“You’re one to talk about being different people from room to room.”

“Excuse me?”

“You call yourself a chameleon. You change yourself to fit in, you change yourself so people will like you. Do you even know who you are?” It hits somewhere soft and dark, somewhere I’ve protected even from myself for so long, and the unexpectedness of his words takes my breath away.

“What?”