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“I don’t want you using me as an excuse.” I wasn’t going to argue with him over distance being hard, but my chest went tight and icy at the thought of him prioritizing us over the show he’d worked so hard on.
“It’s not an excuse.” He sounded wounded, which only made my chest that much more painful. “I really, really want this to work out.”
“I’m not more important than your show. You came back to fight for it. The bigwigs offering you more seasons is a win. Take it.”
“Oh. I see.” His tone was distant, and I wasn’t sure he did see, but I let him continue. “You truly want me to take this offer?”
“If this is the best they give you, sure.” I shrugged, still not entirely sure what the problem was here. “This is a chance to end the show on your terms like you wanted.”
“Maybe this conversation wasn’t the best idea. I’m not hungry anymore.” He pushed his plate away, expression somewhere between carsick and overdraft on the rent check.
“You’re mad at me.” I didn’t phrase it as a question because it was damn obvious he was upset.
“Not mad. You’re being honest. Disappointed, maybe.” His wistful tone was back, and it cut me like a bowie knife to the gut: swift, sharp, and deadly.
“Because I don’t want to be your excuse? There are no guarantees with relationships. You know that. I’d like us to work out too, but I’m not gonna let you put that ahead of something you’ve worked so hard on.” It was a lot of words to string together, and I was breathing hard as I finished.
“I’m not crazy about acting like we’re doomed from the start.” He stood as if he was going to walk away, but then he turned back to me. “There’s another option, but I doubt you’ll like that either. You could come.”
“Come?”
“There’s plenty of security work in Atlanta with all the filming there these days. I could even get you something on our show—”
“I don’t need you getting me jobs!” I wasn’t going to be a charity case or his kept man, no matter how much I liked him.
“That’s what I figured.” He stared out at the pool, and the finality in his tone only served to twist that knife in my gut. I was bleeding out, but hell if I knew how to stop it.
“You don’t need to be sad.”
“Don’t tell me how to feel,” he snapped, then gentled his voice. “Please.”
Damn. The soft please nearly ended me right there on the spot. “I meant I hate seeing you sad.”
“Then come.”
I dug my teeth into my upper lip, pulling hard enough to hurt but not enough to mask the pain in my chest and stomach.
“I see.” He nodded like my silence was as good as a reply. “Could I have a moment? You’re welcome to swim—”
“I don’t want to swim.” I glared at him, not at all happy at being dismissed like I was one of his minions. “I want…hell. I’m not sure.”
We made near-identical frustrated noises, which would have been funny under other circumstances.
“Maybe we both need thinking time.” His voice was kinder but no less dismissive.
“I’ll go.” I stood and picked up our plates to take to the kitchen. No sense in leaving a mess. Or at least not more of one. I wanted to tell him that we’d figure this out, that I’d find the right words, ask him to be patient with me. “Ambrose—”
He held up a hand. “Let’s not say anything we might regret.”
“Fair enough.” The time for talking clearly done, I drove home in a fog. My couch seemed even lonelier now. The French press mocked me. I wasn’t sure why I’d carefully carried it in and set it on my small kitchen’s breakfast bar where I could see it from my heap on the couch, but I had.
I was a boneless lump of a man, and worse, I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d done wrong. But everything was terrible and twisted, and nothing made sense. When Ambrose was next to me, everything made sense, like I’d cracked some secret code. Ambrose in my bed, in my arms, in my life. I missed the way he’d looked at me at the cabin, like I was the answer to every question he’d ever had.
Only now, I’d given the wrong answer and ruined everything.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ambrose
“We’re not taking the offer.” Cressida showed up at my door much too early the next morning. I’d slept like crap and wasn’t dressed beyond a pair of flannel pants and a T-shirt that dated back to my film-school days.
“Hello to you too, sister dear.” I stifled a yawn while holding the door open for her to come into the house. Hercules was right by my side to greet her. She knew the new security code, so she was parked inside the gate, shiny SUV gleaming in the morning sun. The bright, clear day seemed designed to mock my dark and cloudy mood.
