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“I get that,” I say, passion rising in my voice. “Of course I get that. And it’s one of the reasons I feel like such an idiot for storming out of his apartment. I should’ve waited to see what he was going to say next. But then I stupidly told him about my crush, and then I felt like I was in high school all over again.”
“So you ran,” she says softly.
“Are you judging me?”
She takes my hand in both of hers, squeezing comfortingly. “No. But I won’t lie either. I think you owe it to yourself to see him again, to at least try to believe this is real. Because I can’t see why he would lie about this.”
“Except if it’s some twisted game.”
She scowls, shaking her head. “That makes no sense. If he had a habit of doing this, of targeting women and declaring his love or whatever, surely somebody would’ve come out with a story by now. But there aren’t any, are there?”
“People don’t always come forward.”
“Maddie, do you really think Madden is capable of any of that? Or are you just too scared to believe it’s real because you're afraid it might all be taken away, and then you’ll be even more upset than you were before?”
My gut screams at me, telling me Madden would never lie about this.
My heart pumps forcefully, singing that Madden is telling the truth.
My instincts yell at me to find him, to kiss him, to hold him and fuck him until I’m swollen with his seed.
“Your psychology course is turning you into a freaking mind reader,” I murmur.
“It’s not the course. It’s us, me and you. I know you. And right now I can tell you’ll hate yourself forever if you don’t give this a shot.”
“But what if I can’t be good enough for him?” I whisper.
“Oh, Maddie. You already are.”
Chapter Eighteen
Madden
I sit at the restaurant’s bar, taking a sip of my black coffee. It’s hardly been twelve hours since Maddie stormed out of my apartment, but it feels like forever as I let my gaze flit to the mirror above the bar, giving me a view of the restaurant.
The place is quiet and not at all fancy, more of a diner than a restaurant, though the moniker is hard to shift with the name.
The Royal Restaurant.
As though it wants to seem upper class sitting in this grimy neighborhood, with one of the windows showing a spider’s web crack in the corner, the tendrils clawing up and across the glass.
I warn myself that this isn’t fair, looking down on this sort of place. I spent most of my early twenties drinking and eating in places like this, trying to work out how I was ever going to make my way as a writer.
But it’s not the establishment itself that causes a swelling of distaste to rise up. It’s the fact my woman has to work here to support herself, when in reality she should be focusing on her writing, putting everything she has into her passion, her talent.
My stomach knots when the bell above the door rings and my woman walks in. She’s wearing a tight fitting black skirt that hugs onto those hips that drive me so damn crazy, with her shirt buttoned up to the top, hugging close to her chest and revealing her tantalizing outline.
She’s got a twisted expression on her face, her eyes filled with something unreadable.
Something dark. Angry.
For a moment I wonder if she’s spotted me, but then I see her gaze is directed at the man behind the bar.
He’s tall and burly, with a thick neck and arms. He has a nasty look about him and was gruff as hell when serving my coffee.
He has that aura about him some men have, as though they’re better than the rest and they’re not afraid to let you know it.
Truth be told, it pisses me off. A man should do his job well no matter how far above it he thinks he is.
“Tell me something, Maddison,” the man snaps, in a tone, I don’t like.
It’s a tone I don’t like at all.
“Listen, Gerry, I’m really sorry but my bus was—”
Gerry raises his finger, cutting Maddie off.
The place is almost empty except for me, just a few people dotted up and down the bar, sipping coffee, and a couple of older ladies in the corner with their faces pressed right up to their newspapers.
Gerry and Maddie’s voices carry, but nobody looks up or pays any notice, making me wonder if this is a regular occurrence.
The thought makes my hands tighten into fists, rage pulsing through my body.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Gerry goes on. “I just wanted to know why I’m behind the bar serving people their morning coffees when I should be sorting the books? Can you tell me that is, Maddison?”
