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Four
Dean had no idea how long Sarah had been standing there watching him lose his shit, but he knew one thing for certain. He needed her to leave. Leave now.
“Everything’s just fine.” He paused, inadvertently licking his top lip, and he swore he could still taste her mouth on his.
Not again, asshole. Don’t get distracted again.
He veered his gaze from her and out to the parking lot, her crossed arms bringing too much attention to her chest. “Go back to the party.”
“Are you sure you’re fine?” He returned his attention to her blond hair cascading over one shoulder, her come-hither eyes narrowed like she didn’t believe his statement about being fine. “I could have sworn you shouted the word ‘fuck’ on repeat while abusing the ground with your foot.”
Her expletive had him pausing once more, the scent of her orange blossom perfume still punctuating the air. In his world, curse words, fairy costumes, and flowery perfume didn’t mix.
He crammed any desire to show hospitality and instead clung to displaying annoyance. “It’s not ladylike to swear.”
She spat out a loud laugh and eyeballed him the entire time. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re not in Buckingham Palace here, and I’m not a lady. Besides, I was paraphrasing you. My cussing doesn’t count.”
He might have rolled his eyes, except her stage hysterics led to her bending forward slightly, bringing his attention back to her low neckline.
She stayed quiet for a moment, her green eyes slowly darkening. “So, plan on telling me why you ran?”
He scrubbed a hand over the scruff of his neck, holding back a desire to respond with, “Not really,” only to give a more polite, “I had someone I needed to talk to but missed them, no big deal. Like I said, go back to the party.”
“Oh, yeah? You’re just going to tell me to go back to the party?” Her flaxen brows rose into high arches, like the physical vexed version of a certain restaurant chain’s logo. She uncrossed her arms and stormed over, poking a bony finger hard into his chest, even this small and angry touch sending ripples through his body. “In what world is it okay to storm off on someone after unceremoniously detaching yourself from their face?”
His mouth trembled at yet another of this woman’s smart-ass replies, but he forced himself to bury his smirk and settle for blowing out a slow, hard breath.
Sure, he’d kissed her. That kiss had been damn fun too. But one kiss didn’t mean he owed her anything.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he offered in a flat tone, sending the message that he wouldn’t let her set all the rules here. “It’s kind of rude.”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes blazed, pupils wide, brows crammed together. “I was angry when you ran off, but then I figured something might be wrong, so I came out here to check you were okay. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with you. Well, nothing besides being a jerk who lacks basic manners.”
She leaned back a little, shrugging like she was pleased with her dig at him.
“Okay. Fine.” He paused to bite back a need to argue further. Maybe an apology would get her to leave. “I’m sorry.”
“Nope.” She jutted her chin out and shook her head. “Nope. One sorry isn’t going to cut it. You put a lot of effort back there to insist you weren’t out to hurt me, and then you ran. Way to dent a woman’s ego.”
He ground his teeth together, a dull ache spreading through his jaw. She had a point. She had been decent to him, trusted him, and he’d let her down. And even after all these years, after all that had happened to him and who he’d become… Sometimes. Sometimes, his moral code won out.
“Look, I don’t have a good explanation for you, okay? Not one that won’t require a lie.” He eyed the ground and did his best to sound sincere. “So, can you accept that I’m genuinely sorry for the confusion back there? Then we can forget anything happened and get on with our night.”
Her shoulders dropped, her eyes a little glassed over with disbelief or disappointment. The slight breeze lifted her golden hair so that the finer strands caught in the moonlight, and an ethereal dance played out around her head.
“I wish I could.” The barely audible whisper fell from her lips, and she turned away, presumably toward her car, before she pitched a grin from over her shoulder and called out one last farewell. “Have a nice trip back to hell.”
Her all-too-casual tone washed over him, and once again, he stood stock-still, while she rummaged through her purse, her head tilted down.
Should he laugh at her final dig, or succumb to the pang of guilt eating him up? He couldn’t decide. Though her slumped posture revealed more disappointment than she let on.
His thoughts harked back to the moment he’d first spotted her. To the unguarded look she’d worn. Not too dissimilar to his mother’s expression when she’d made him morning pancakes as a kid—a performance of domestic bliss to paper over his father’s drunken behavior from the night before. The broken knickknacks. The yelling. Her bruises. That stunned and pale look….
He understood that look on a personal level, too. The show of someone whose life had drifted in the opposite direction to their plans. A look that revealed simultaneous hope amongst abject hopelessness.
He shouldn’t have cared about her despondency, but he did. He didn’t like this ending. Didn’t like letting her go or letting her believe he’d lied.
Discord burrowed its way into the depths of his stomach, a discord that said it would linger if he let her drive away.
