by Regina Kyle
Because if I do, it will be me who won’t be able to walk away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Brie
I HESITATE BEFORE inserting the key I haven’t had the heart to return to Connor into the lock on the door of what, for a brief time, I considered our apartment. Emotion clogs my throat, and it takes a few tries for me to speak.
“Are you sure he’s not going to be here?”
Ainsley nods. “Positive. He and Jake have a ten o’clock meeting with the contractor overseeing the renovations at the club. There’s no way they’ll be done before lunchtime.”
“Good.” Sneaking in to grab the rest of my stuff when he’s not home may be a chickenshit move, but I don’t care. I’m not anywhere near ready to face him.
I let us into the loft. When I walk through the door, a sad sense of familiarity overwhelms me, and I suck in a breath and try to collect myself, not wanting my friend to see how much being here is affecting me.
I didn’t think it would be this hard. It’s been almost a month since I moved out the morning after the film festival. Even that’s not enough time to erase the pain of our epic, messy breakup.
Ainsley puts a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. So much for not letting her see me break down.
“No,” I admit. “But I will be. Eventually.”
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it will become a self-fulfilling prophesy.
Mirri and Ajani come padding out from who knows where to greet me. I kneel down to pet their furry little heads, tears threatening the backs of my eyelids.
Ainsley lets her ever-present messenger bag slide off her shoulder to the floor and squats next to me, reaching out to scratch Ajani between the ears. “I still think you’re making a mistake.”
I drop my bag next to hers and swipe a traitorous tear from the corner of my eye. She’s wrong, but she means well. And as much as I hated having to run back to her and Jake with my tail tucked between my legs, I’m grateful they took me in. Again.
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do. It’s not like Connor gave me much choice.”
“Did you try telling him how you feel about him?”
I don’t bother denying that I’m in love with him. Actions speak louder than words, and she’s seen me mooning around like a teenage girl for the past four weeks, eating chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the package and binge-watching Tiger King.
“It doesn’t matter because he doesn’t feel the same way about me. At least not strongly enough to make up for having to live under the glare of the paparazzi.” I give Mirri one last belly rub and hoist myself up, taking my bag with me. “Come on, let’s get this over with. The sooner I grab the rest of my things and get out of here, the better.”
I lead the way to the spare bedroom I occupied when I first moved in. I cleared most of my stuff out the day I left, but there are still a few things I couldn’t manage to grab in my rush to escape. Connor might have offered to let me stay as long as I needed, but that wasn’t happening. Being that close to him and not being with him, not being able to touch him or taste him, would have been torture.
“Where do you want me to start?” Ainsley asks, taking her coat off and flopping down on the bed.
“Not there.” I pull an empty garbage bag out from my oversized purse and toss it to her. It lands on the pillow above her head. “There’s some stuff hanging in the closet. Just throw it in the bag. I’ll sort it out later.”
“Hangers, too?”
“All of it.” I strip my jacket off and hang it the bedpost. Then I fish my phone out of my purse and open my favorite Spotify playlist, hoping a little music will cheer me up. And keep Ainsley from continuing to grill me about Connor. “Mind if I put on some tunes?”
She shrugs and pushes herself upright, taking the garbage bag with her. “Knock yourself out.”
I press play, and Harry Styles’ “Watermelon Sugar” fills the room. Ainsley gets working on the closet, and I take an empty box from under the bed into the adjoining bathroom to make sure there’s nothing of mine left in there.
We work in companionable silence until everything is in bags or boxes. It takes longer than I thought—I totally underestimated the amount of stuff I left behind—and it’s almost noon by the time we’re done.
Ainsley tosses my Vans checkerboard slip-ons into a bag and slumps down onto the floor, her back resting against the wall. “Has anyone ever told you you own way too many shoes?”
“My brother. At least once a week the entire time I’ve lived with him.” I slump down next to her. “Thanks for helping me pack. And for letting me come back and crash with you guys on such short notice. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
“As if we would turn you away.” She slings an arm around my shoulders, and I lean against her, happy to let her take some of my burden. “You’re family. We’ll always be here for you. Just promise you’ll be back from Toronto in time for the wedding.”
“Are you kidding?” I scoff. “There’s no way I’m missing that. Besides, production says I’ll be done shooting in a few weeks. That gives me plenty of wiggle room to get back here in time for all the festivities.”
Including the bachelorette party her best friend Mia and I are planning for her at Top Shelf. But she doesn’t know about that. Not yet. It’s a surprise. Even Jake is sworn to secrecy.
“I’m so stoked for you.” She gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Your first big feature film role. I want a front row seat at the premiere.”
“I don’t know about big. It’s only a supporting role in a indie movie.”
A nice, juicy one, though. I’ll be playing a sexual assault victim who sues her attacker, the son of a prominent politician and champion of the #MeToo movement, after the justice system lets him off with a slap on the wrist. It’s dark and edgy and the exact opposite of my role in the Mortal Misfits. And I’m working with one of the hottest indie directors out there.
I still can’t believe he hired me after all the shit that went down at the film festival. Irene’s article went viral the next day, as expected. But Miriam worked her magic. Got me on a few daytime talk shows, gave me a chance to explain my side of the story. And she was right. After a few days of seemingly nonstop coverage, the whole thing died down, and the tabloids moved on to the next celebrity scandal.
“Remember what I told you when you booked that ensemble role in Les Mis?” Ainsley nudges my knee with hers. “There’s no small parts—”
“I know, I know. Only small actors.” I stand, brushing my hands off on my jeans. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. I grab my jacket from the bedpost and stick my arms through the sleeves. “It’s almost lunchtime. We should probably get this stuff out of here. And maybe grab some sushi at Shoji.”
Translation: I’m starving, and I don’t want to risk Connor showing up after his meeting and finding me here.
“Sounds good to me.”
She gets to her feet, put her coat on, and hoists one of the now full garbage bags over her shoulder. I grab a box and follow her out of the bedroom.
It takes a few trips to get everything down to the lobby, where my doorman buddy Ernie has agreed to watch it until it’s all out of the apartment and we’re ready to go. We’re finishing up our last run, about halfway down the hall on our way back to the living room, when the ominous click of a lock echoes through the quiet apartment.
Ainsley stops in her tracks, and I almost plow into her, clutching the box I’m carrying to my chest to avoid dropping it.
“Shit,” she hisses, hitching the garbage bag in her hands higher on her shoulder. “Connor’s home.”
“Maybe it’s his cleaning lady,” I say, knowing deep down that it can’t possibly be that easy. Not the way my love life—or lack thereof—has been going lately.
“I’m sorry,” Ainsley whispers. “I should have asked Jake to text me when their meeting was over.”
“It’s not your fault. He’s my brother’s best friend. I’m going to have to face him at some point.”
Although I was really, really hoping that point didn’t have to be today.
I hear the door open, and there’s no time to formulate any sort of game plan before the man who ripped my heart into a million tiny, painful pieces is standing in front of me. For a split second, his face registers shock and something that looks like remorse. But it’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by a blank stoicism.
“Hey,” I croak, my eyes drinking him in even as my head is telling me to proceed with caution. Is it my imagination—or maybe wishful thinking—or are those dark circles under his eyes? And his skin is pale and drawn, like he’s been getting as little sleep as I have.
“Hey,” he echoes, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.
“I used my key to get the rest of my stuff.” I jerk my head at the box in my hands. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence, then Ainsley pipes up. “I’ll bring this down to the lobby and call an Uber.”
She lowers her voice to a loud whisper and not-so-subtly elbows me in the ribs. “Tell him how you feel. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Trust me.”
“Traitor,” I mutter as she brushes past me.
“Bye, Connor.” She stops to kiss his cheek. He may have broken my heart, but he’s still practically family. I don’t expect her or Jake to cut them out of their lives on my behalf. Which makes this all that much harder. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t,” he mumbles, shuffling his feet. It’s obvious he’s as uncomfortable with this situation as I am.
Ainsley turns back to me with a look in her eyes that makes my stomach sink. I know that look. It usually means she’s got something up her sleeve. An I’m-not-going-to-like-it kind of something.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” she says. “But don’t rush on my account. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about.”
She takes off down the hall, leaving me and Connor staring after her. A few seconds later, I hear the door to the loft swing open and click shut.
“So.” The box is getting heavy. I shift it in my arms. “This is awkward.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” He takes the box from me, ever the gentleman, even in less than ideal circumstances. “Jake told me you booked an independent film in Toronto. Congratulations. When do you leave?”
“Next week. As soon as shooting wraps on the Mortal Misfits.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in the hallway. Or that I’m seriously considering taking Ainsley’s advice and spilling my guts to Connor. But she has a point. It’s been a month, and my feelings for him haven’t waned. I’ll always wonder what could have been if I had been brave enough to open my mouth. And my heart.
I take a deep breath, swallow hard, and charge ahead. When the words come out, they come fast and furious, like a dam inside me has broken, releasing a floodgate of emotions. “Connor, I know you don’t think we can be together. And I’m not trying to change your mind. But there’s something I never told you, and this might be my last chance. I lo—”
“Don’t,” he says, low and pleading, cutting me off. His jaw is tight, his face hard. “Please.”
An ache builds and takes root deep in my soul. “Why?”
“It doesn’t change anything.” Each syllable he utters is a fresh blow to my already splintered heart. “I still can’t be the man you need.”
What little hope I’d been clinging to seeps out of me, leaving me feeling like a deflated balloon. That’s it then. He knows how I feel, and it doesn’t matter.
I snatch the box out of his hands and push my way past him to the door, determined not to let him see me cry this time.
“Is there anything else that needs to go downstairs?” he asks almost apologetically.
“No, this is the last of it.” Thank God. I don’t think I could survive another encounter with him today.
He goes to open the door for me, but my icy glare stops him short. I shift the box to my hip and use my free hand to dig into my pocket.
“Here.” I pull out the key to his apartment, the one he gave me when I first moved in what seems like an eternity ago. “I won’t be needing this anymore.”
I press the key into his palm, relishing one final brush of his skin against mine, and walk out the door for the last time, leaving my heart behind with him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Connor
I LOVE CHRISTMAS in New York. Or at least I used to. But this year, every classic carol, every cheerfully decorated window, every sappy, small-town-girl-goes-to-the-Big-Apple Hallmark movie is a painful reminder that I won’t be spending the holidays with the woman I love.
She’ll be back from Toronto next week, just in time for Christmas Eve. Not that I’m cyber stalking her or anything. But Jake talks, even when I’d like him to shut up.
He and Ainsley have invited me to join them for Christmas dinner. But I think they both know that’s not happening, not with Brie in the picture. That would take painful to a whole new level.
A passing car blares its horn, making me jump and jerking me back to the present. I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to walk the two plus miles from the club to my apartment. At 7:30, it’s already dark. And it’s cold enough that I can see my breath coming out in frosty white puffs. But despite the darkness and the near-freezing temperature, the long walk is still preferable to rushing home for another lonely night of frozen pizza and online chess.
I cross Broadway and pass a bookstore I must have driven by a thousand times before. But this time, something makes me stop and look inside. Maybe it’s the line snaking outside the door. Or maybe it’s the poster in the window that catches my eye.
Meet the author!
Vincent Dow signs copies of his holiday thriller, Jingle Bell Glock.
Thursday, December 19
6:00–8:00 p.m.
Thursday, December 19. That’s today. I know because I spent the greater part of my work day writing it on checks for the contractors doing the renovations.
I peer through the store window again, and sure enough, there he is. My father, sitting behind a table piled with copies of his latest release, looking—lost?
I take a second look, then a third, really studying him. This isn’t the Vincent Dow I’m used to seeing at book signings. Gone is the charming smile, the flirtatious glint in his eyes, the dramatic flair when he signs his name. Instead, his smile is forced, his eyes humorless, his movements slow and measured. It’s like he’s sleepwalking, going through the motions with poorly feigned enthusiasm.
Christ. I turn my back to the window, feeling like a jackass for ignoring the calls and texts he’s been sending me all week. I figured he wanted to guilt me into coming out to the Hamptons for the holidays. A fate worse than having my fingernails pulled out one by one.
But maybe there’s something deeper going on. My father might be a colossal tool, but that doesn’t mean I have to be one, too. The least I can do is go in and talk to him. Make sure everything’s okay, or as okay as it ever is with my dad.
Plus, it’s warm inside, and it beats going home to my empty apartment.
Almost without thinking, my feet carry me to the end of the line. It’s getting shorter—I assume because the signing is scheduled to end in less than half an hour—and I’m inside the bookstore in just a few minutes.
Once I get through the door, though, I start to reconsider my plan. Walking up to the table with a book in hand like some starstruck fanboy seems kind of like an ambush. So I duck out of line and into the nearest book stack, where I can kill time and keep an eye on t
hings.
I’m about ten pages into a biography of a man billed as the FBI’s most wanted fugitive—not my usual choice of reading material, but I’m stuck between the true crime section and one on wedding planning—when the last person in line takes a selfie with my father, tucks her signed copy of Jingle Bell Glock in her bag, and is on her way. I stick the biography back on the shelf where I found it and make my way over to my father.
“I’m sorry.” A woman who I assume is the bookstore manager steps in my path, brandishing a stack of books. “The event is over. Mr. Dow has signed a few extra copies of Jingle Bell Glock for us. I was just about to put them out on an endcap in our suspense section. If you’re interested, I could hold one for you while you shop.”
“He can have this one.” My father stands and comes around the table, holding out a book to me. “This is my son, Connor. He owns Top Shelf. It’s one of the hottest nightclubs in Manhattan. Or so I’ve been told.”
He sounds almost proud. I don’t know how to respond to this new, unfamiliar Vincent Dow, so I take the book with a mumbled “thanks” and stick it in the outside pocket of my briefcase.
The bookstore manager’s face flushes an embarrassed pink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize your son would be joining you.”
“Neither did I.” My father puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s a nice surprise.”
The manager apologizes again, thanks my father for a successful signing, and goes to shelve her books, leaving my father and I standing awkwardly next to each other.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says after an uncomfortable pause, dropping his hand from my shoulder.
“I know.” I scan the bookstore, wall-to-wall with holiday shoppers. This isn’t the place for a heart-to-heart. Or a knock-down blowout. I’m still not sure which way this is going. “Do you want to get out of here? Get a drink somewhere? Or is Fiona expecting you back on Long Island?”
Something dark and wistful crosses his face. “I’ll make time. We need to talk. Just give me a minute to pack up.”