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Like he wasn’t missing the big chunks of himself he’d learned to function without.
When he’d returned to the bedroom after cleaning up, he had been unsurprised to see that she was ready to run. Her reaction was logical, given who they were to each other and what they’d done.
What hadn’t been expected was his visceral reaction to seeing her there, about to leave.
He’d gotten so pissed off that she was trying to cut the night short, he’d demanded she lay back down. And he’d used the tone that—up until then—had gotten him everything he’d wanted from her.
When she failed to move, he took it one step further, calling her Liza.
It was the first time he’d spoken her name—just Liza—aloud to her, though it was what he called her when thinking about her.
Liza.
Liza.
He was tempted to add the word his in front of it, but it was time for him to put that foolishness aside.
He’d indulged in one night—a mistake she’d called it, and she was right, though Liza had no idea just how big a mistake it had been, how big the can of worms they’d just opened.
Matt sighed, trying to shake off the heavy thoughts beating inside his head. He’d expected the regret over his actions, been waiting for it.
But he’d underestimated how large, how brutal it would be.
He stood, pacing across the bedroom floor. He pulled on his boxer briefs but nothing else before padding to the living room.
Crossing the room to the bar, he poured himself a glass of Scotch, taking a long sip, the heat of the liquor burning down his throat, a lame attempt at warming him—inside or out.
It didn’t work.
He walked to the window, looking down on the cityscape. The streets—decorated with twinkly lights for the holidays—were quiet in the wee hours of morning, as they were still a couple of hours away from sunrise. There was a light dusting of snow on the sidewalks, winter making its first—late—appearance. Typically, Philadelphia’s first snow came long before now, but this year, it had held off until mid-December. Looked like they’d get that white Christmas everyone always longed for.
He swallowed hard, fighting to dislodge the lump in his throat that always appeared whenever he thought about the holidays, likening himself to a soldier with PTSD. Only his trauma had nothing to do with war and everything to do with fucking Christmas.
Shoving those unwanted thoughts deep down inside, he imagined Liza returning to her hotel room, stripping off that gorgeous red dress, toeing off the torturous heels. Was she standing in this same spot, too many floors below him, studying the same view?
The urge to get dressed and go after her was powerful.
Too powerful.
So he took another drink of Scotch. And another. Willing it away.
This was why he’d stayed away from her, always watching from afar, keeping his distance. She’d been a threat to him since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her at Enigma. And she was still a threat.
Because while Liza may have run tonight, she wouldn’t go far.
She’d begin to play tonight over in her mind, recalling all the things he shouldn’t have revealed, and she would come to believe that there could be something between them.
At some point, she’d convince herself that this wasn’t a mistake, and she’d come back to him. She was a fighter, and she never said die. He admired that about her as much as he hated it because it was what made her so dangerous to him.
Liza thought he was holding her at bay because of their families’ feud, because of long-ago slights and hurts.
But that wasn’t the truth, wasn’t the reason at all.
His need to stay away from her stemmed from something more, something that—should he ever try to explain to her—would do what he was trying to do now. It would push her away forever.
Those flashes of fondness, of trust that he’d seen tonight would turn dim and sputter out completely if she knew the truth.
Which was why he would never tell her.
