Page 105 of Stealing Blinds

“I can’t do”—I flip my hand between the cell and him—“this.”

“It’s not what you think. Stop and listen.”

My hands smack over my face as I collapse onto the love seat because I don’t want him to witness the absolute mental breakdown I am on the verge of having. “Save whatever fucking story you’re going to feed me. It was written all over your faces, and it’s fine. I mean, it’s not. But you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know me. I just can’t—”

“Sylvie, I didn’t sleep with her. I’ve never touched her.”

That does grab my attention, so I pop straight up to my feet, panting as I chew on that admission. “She looked at you like … like she was guilty.”

“Probably because of your history.” He raises his palm, coaxing me to stay put. “You know that story you heard about the girl who turned me down in Café L’Ambroisie? It was her.”

My arms fly out, flung by rage and soaring with indignation. “So, the girl you repeatedly talk about as the one who got away was Flora?! That’s the silver lining?”

I’m shouting, and I don’t shout.

“First, I do not talk about her like she’s the one who got away. No part of my brain ever fathomed there being a one until you.”

He stares at me with a dare to refute it, but I cross my arms over my chest, intrigued by how he’s going to spin this.

“They have dueling pianists at Café L’Ambroisie. I was there, saw her sitting alone, told her I was the owner, and bought her a drink. Every song they played seemed to echo what I was saying. She accused me of manipulating the music selection—which I was not, but I claimed credit anyway because she seemed impressed. And I’m an asshole sometimes.” He cuts a defeated hand through the air, pissed about his assholeishness. “She said I was only interested in one thing with women. I lied, insisting she had me all wrong. She asked what my thoughts about her the next day would be. Right on cue, the pianist pointed in our direction while playing ‘You Shook Me All Night Long,’ and she walked right out the door.”

I’m flabbergasted for nearly a minute as I consider every angle. “That is the most asinine story I may have ever heard. Someday, I’m going to laugh about it. Maybe with Flora. But not now.” I heave a breath, calmer but still seething. “I’ve tried to get past my insecurities and not think about how many people you’ve been with. There was only one who mattered, and you—”

“Didn’t chase her,” he breaks in.

“What?”

A muscle in his jaw clenches, and his eyes darken with determination. “I didn’t fucking follow her.”

I get that perspective, but I’m still hurt. “You also hardly ever hit on people. And you sought her out.”

“I was there. She was alone. It was convenient. That’s it—backed up by the fact that I watched her walk out the door, texted my family about it because I was convinced someone was punking me, and only brought it up continuously because I’d already owned crashing and burning. But I didn’t think about her again beyond that.”

I shake my head, so he moves closer, gripping my chin to force me to look at him.

“Not like you, who I chased around the city, spent weeks trying to figure out your name, tracked down more than once, and brought home. And I’d noticed you before that. Did I ever tell you how I figured out your name?”

“No,” I whisper, dizzy from his enticing depraved-mayhem fragrance.

“I remembered you from the WAGs After Dark banquet. I saw you while Mercy was giving her toast, and I thought you were stunning. But you were someone else’s. And still, years later, after only seeing you with a mask on, I remembered.”

He remembered me.

I step back, rubbing my forehead while my heart cracks open. “I hear all that. I just—”

“Do not make a fifteen-minute conversation into even a shadow of what we have.”

“You’re right,” I concede, and he sighs in relief that slices through me. “It’s just … there’s a lot going on. And we’re moving really fast—”

“Your parents got married in forty-eight hours,” he argues—because this man recalls everything.

“My father also went to prison, so emulating them is ill-advised,” I retort.

“We’re long past forty-eight hours, Sylv.”

“We are,” I agree, breezing into the closet. “But maybe we should take a step back and keep this casual. I’m living with you, and …”

“You want to keep it casual?” His tone is so chilling; it seeps into my lungs like a humid blizzard.