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“Sorry,” she blurts out through tears, her voice muffled by her hand. “I’m not… I don’t want to…”
“Madison, please, I—”
“Fuck you,” she hisses, while squeezing my hand in her lap. “And fuck me. You’re right. I’m an idiot. I don’t know what I was—”
“We’re both idiots,” I murmur.
The solemn tone of my words causes her to pause and her hand slowly sinks down into her lap, while she looks at me through reddened eyes. Our gazes lock, and she calms down, the tension leaving her shoulders, while a single, last tear rolls down her cheek.
“What do you mean by that?”
She’s whispering, as if she was afraid to ask that question. And there’s a glimmer of hope in her expression that breaks my heart. I don’t want to shatter that hope. I want to feed it, and see what grows from it, if neither of us fights it—as impossible as that may seem right now.
“I mean, that I’m just as fucked as you are.”
A slight tremor moves through her, when I start caressing her hand with my thumb, it’s a gentle touch, warm and soothing—and I’m shook by the realization that I’ve never touched a woman like this. I never wanted to. I never cared enough to allow this kind of intimacy without the need for sex hammering at the back of my head. I’m still drawn to Madison with a force that borders on painful, but right now, all I want is for her to stop crying, and to bring back that provoking smile, to see that dimple on her left cheek when she’s about to tease me, to hear that winning laughter when she gets something she wants…
And it pains me to know that I will never be the man who can give her all she wants. Because if her wishes are met, mine are destroyed. And I’ve fought too hard to be where I am to give up now.
“Believe me, Madison, this isn’t easy for me,” I manage to say, fighting for every single word. Why is this so fucking hard?
“Then why are you doing it?” she asks. “Why do you have to take my company away from me? Even after… all of this.”
She looks out to the ocean, and my heart aches when she pulls her hands out of mine.
“Because I have to,” I say, as I get back up on my feet. “I’ve been working toward this my entire life, Madison. I thought you’d understand that.”
She lets out a pained chuckle.
“That’s the fucked up thing,” she says, now looking back at me. “I do understand, Chase. I understand what you’re trying to do—because I’m doing the same. I have been working for this my entire life, too.”
There are unspoken words lingering between us, the air filled with meaning, understanding, and so much pain, that it makes me want to fucking scream.
Chapter 31
Madison
We haven’t talked much since last night’s dinner. Chase tried to lighten the mood, but I couldn’t get myself to return to the breezy and fun person he spent the last few days with. His comment hurt more than he could ever know, and our dinner conversation ruined the mood entirely.
I hate him so much for all of this, but still, I can’t really say I’m mad at him. I wish it were as simple as that. I hate how much I understand him. I know that he can’t let go of his dream, because neither can I. And when he looked at me with those tortured eyes, I could tell that the weight of everything that stands between us is weighing on him just as much as it’s weighing on me. I believed him when he said that he’s just as fucked as I am—or I want to believe him.
My heart was aching when we returned to our suite last night, and it was aching even more when we started packing in silence. By the time we went to bed, I was close to tears, and he wrapped his arms around me, when he noticed. We kissed then, but we didn’t have sex. I wanted to, and I’m sure he did, too, but it didn’t feel right after what happened during dinner. Instead, we fell asleep in a wordless embrace, unable to deny the magnetic pull between us, despite everything.
I always knew that having sex with him was wrong, but in the moment, it felt so inexplicably right that I refused to think of all the things that stand between us. The reality that we blocked out during our entire stay, except for that last dinner, when I couldn’t help but bring it up.
Did I hope that he might have changed his mind? Did a tiny part of me even expect it, after all that happened between us? Was I really that stupid?
And did he expect me to change my mind? Is that really the game he was playing? I still can’t be sure either way.
This morning, I don’t even know if I was more disappointed about being hurt by him or about not having sex with him one last time. It would have been our last time, right? We never said anything about bringing this confusion back home to California.
Which sucks a lot, because right now, he looks “good enough to eat,” as Max would say. His tan darkened during our stay on the island, and he looks exceptionally hot in a white shirt and Cartier sunglasses, as we board the private jet on our way home.
He’s the perfect gentleman, holding open doors for me, trying to help me with my carry-on—but I wouldn’t let him—and making sure I have everything I need. And it doesn’t exactly help with my conflicting emotions.
He looks rather miserable himself, but his touch is as electrifying as ever, his hand at the small of my back when he guides me to my seat sends sparks through my core, dancing and tingling with need, while he helps me get settled on the plane.
I watch the strong muscles on his arms flex when he stows away our carry-ons, and I find myself taking an extra deep breath when he leans over to my side to look out the window as we take off.
