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“I have to go,” she muttered, her throat tight with unshed tears, and all but ran up the stairs, leaving him alone on the terrace.
Ellie didn’t usually consider herself a coward, but tonight, walking away without a backward glance was cowardly. She loved him and hated him in equal measures— just as much as she loved and loathed herself for succumbing to him again.
As her feet moved mechanically through the hotel to her room, she thought about the last time they’d been together. A moment of weakness six months ago, when Jaxon Thorne was proven not guilty of all of the crimes he’d been accused of. Cal had gotten him off for everything except the final attack on Alexis, playing a flawless defense in the courtroom, and Ellie’s world had shattered. She’d come to hate him for it then, as much as she’d loved him before.
But, even so, he’d offered her comfort that night—the warmth of his arms around her when she was falling apart, and the tenderness in his touch had made her feel cherished when she felt humiliated and exposed. A momentary lapse that saw them intertwined in a flurry of passion and regret.
The thought of their last encounter sent Ellie into a spiraling whirlwind of raw pain, leaving her breathless. She had to remind herself to breathe. And then remind herself again.
Her fingers fumbled with the key card to her hotel room. She pushed it into the slot, missed, and tried again with shaky hands before the door finally clicked open.
She collapsed onto her bed, still dressed. The smell of him on her skin, the taste of him on her lips, the throb between her legs—it was somehow both a comfort and a torment. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears as she remembered the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at her, the way he’d whispered “I love you” with such raw sincerity.
She pressed her palms to her eyes.
It wouldn’t happen again.
It couldn’t.
Because every time she found herself in his arms, she only craved him more.
chapter
seven
It wouldn’t happen again.
Every time, he thought if he just fucked her hard enough, he’d imprint on her as indelibly as she had him. If he just made her come enough times, she’d drop her defenses and admit that she needed him as much as he needed her. But it always ended like this—with her leaving and him standing in the cold, empty silence of his self-inflicted heartbreak.
Cal let out a self-deprecating chuckle as he slowly buttoned his shirt. His gaze lingered on the staircase Ellie had fled up just a few minutes ago, the faint echo of her hurried footsteps still ringing in his ears.
She was right. They couldn’t keep doing this.
He loved Ellie Summers with an intensity that sometimes scared him. But the woman was stubborn—more stubborn than anyone he’d ever met. She had built a fortress around herself, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t breach those walls.
It was time to stop trying.
Time to move on with his life.
Maybe he could try dating again. He’d attempted it after she dumped him, but none of the women lived up to Ellie’s sparkle, and he’d always gone home alone.
He had to cut all ties this time—a clean break. Ash had warned him off Hope’s case anyway, so he had nothing left to hold onto. He had to let her go.
But even as he thought of it, everything in him resisted the idea. He pulled out his phone and stared at Ellie’s number—his thumb hovering over the call button. But what would he say? His fingers moved before he could stop them, typing out a message:
I’m sorry.
Then he pocketed his phone and headed home.
The following week flew by.
Cal was in court almost every day, and between trials, he poured himself into three new cases that came in. One was a DUI, one was a bar fight gone wrong, and the last was a repeat client, a twenty-year-old kid who never had a chance to be anything but a criminal and was now looking at a potential life sentence thanks to the three strikes law. Taking on three new clients when he was already slammed meant a lot of long hours, but at least it kept his mind occupied.
But he couldn’t escape Ellie completely.
Every stray moment between his hectic schedule, he fought the urge to call her. He’d see a flash of blonde curls or blue eyes behind glasses, and his heart would stop, only to start again with a painful lurch when it wasn’t her. He’d catch a whiff of her perfume on a passerby, and for a second, he was back in her arms. It was torture, but it was better than the nothingness that threatened to consume him otherwise.
Every day, it felt like she was slipping further from his grasp. She never answered his text, and it never even showed that she’d read it. Had she blocked his number?
