by Alexis James
I’ll never escape out of here without giving her a few crumbs, but I have no intention of telling her everything. “Yes, it was good. He’s a very good lover.”
Amita rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously, that’s all I get. He’s a good lover.” She mimics my words with a long, dramatic drawl. “Come on, Mia. Give me something, anything.”
Nibbling on the crust, I state, “It was really good. Too good, probably.”
She looks at me like I’ve got a screw loose. “How the hell is that possible? There’s no such thing as a lover being too good.”
Wanna bet? “I just mean that I don’t think other guys will be able to measure up, that’s all.”
She tosses down her sandwich and bursts out laughing. “Measure up? What is he, like ten inches?”
My face flames hotly. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Amita throws back her head and cackles at me. “God, Mia, you’re such an innocent sometimes.”
Hardly, I think as I force a bite, even though the urge to eat left the moment he stepped out of his office and shot daggers out of his eyes—directed at only me. I may have been innocent when we left here on Wednesday, but he made sure I was well-schooled by the time we returned.
“Talk to me, sis. What happened that has you so conflicted?”
Unexpected tears fill my eyes, catching me off guard and leaving me far too vulnerable in a crowded deli. “I can’t talk about this now. Not here.”
Whatever she picks up in my tone changes the mood almost instantly, eyes wide with concern, face slowly losing color. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, of course not. He’s just…” I swipe at a stray tear with my thumb “…he’s exactly the man I could see in my future.”
She frowns. “Do you love him?”
“I do. But I don’t think he’ll ever be able to love me.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand and thankfully remains silent. Not that there’s much she could say at this point. Amita has never been one to blow smoke or give false hope. She’s a realist, always has been. It’s something I’ve always admired, something I’ve strived for but have never achieved.
We both resume eating, all the laugher and teasing now gone. She occasionally shoots me worried looks, and I return those with silent smiles that say don’t worry. Dumb, because I know she will.
She doesn’t speak again until we’re walking slowly back to the office. “Will you at least promise me this? Will you promise me you won’t let him string you along for months on end?”
I nod. “I can do that.” As much as I love Cruz, the idea of allowing him to play with my heart any more than he already has makes me queasy.
After a hug goodbye and a promise to talk later, I head to the elevator. While I wait for it to arrive, I consider the promise I made to my friend. The sad truth is that Cruz will most likely try to string me along, at least until he can no longer deal with the pressure, and then I’m certain he won’t hesitate to cut me loose. I do wonder how I could love him, especially knowing that I’m so disposable to him.
Once in the elevator, I ask myself why I do this. Why put myself through all the pain, when I’m certain he’ll never love me in return? Why put any energy into a relationship when all he wants is someone to keep his bed warm at night? Why take a chance on this lonely, angry man when he’s made it clear his past owns him completely?
The smartest thing I could do is walk away. It’s also the hardest and most heartbreaking, and right now I simply can’t give up on him, or on us. I do believe I could be good for him. I know for a fact that we could be good for each other. We proved that multiple times in New Orleans. But would we be good in the long term? Would his restless spirit ever be content to settle?
Why is the only answer I hear a big, fat resounding no?
Every time I close my eyes, I see Mia as she was that last morning: dark hair spread across the white sheets, body eagerly receiving mine, satisfied smile across her beautiful face. She may be a myriad of things … curious, shy, unyielding, caring, and hot as hell … but she is exactly who I’d want by my side if I was the type of person to require or even want that permanently in my life.
I’m not.
Seeing her Monday morning in the office, unsure and clearly worried about what to expect from me, sure as hell didn’t sit well after my sleepless night. I reacted like I always do, snapping and biting people’s heads off, arguing with Marco, and generally being the prick they all expect me to be.
Once home for the evening, I paced like a caged animal, forcing myself not to call her. Doing so would have ended up in one of two ways: Mia in my bed or me in hers. And while the idea of that is more than intriguing, I’ve got to put a lid on this out-of-control situation before it slips through my fingers and I continue sending her all kinds of wrong messages.
The following evening was much of the same and by the time Wednesday rolled around, I couldn’t even look at her. Thank God I had plenty of work to keep me busy. Thank God she didn’t push the issue, ask me to talk, or worse … ask me to come over.
I’m hardly able to resist her as it is, especially when every time I glance at her she gives me the same knowing look she gave me in New Orleans. It’s the exact same look that ended with us naked each and every time—the same look she threw me countless times just as she hit her orgasmic high. It’s a look that screams “I want you now, I need you now.”
My dick flares to life just at the idea of her needing me and with a frustrated growl, I glance at my watch. It’s past seven and I can stay here and work for another few hours or head home to my silent house. Neither is particularly appealing, especially when I’m sitting here semi-hard and wanting nothing more than to crawl between Mia’s legs.
Keys in hand, I forego the idea of work and decide to stop by my parents’ house. Spending time with them will go a long way in distracting me from showing up at Mia’s door. Being with my parents, I may be able to gain some perspective and organize some of the craziness that’s looping an endless reel in my head.
Twenty minutes later I’m strolling through the front door, calling out their names. Mama rushes down the hall, greeting me with a flurry of Spanish chatter and a long, lingering hug that does a lot for my erratic heart.
She sends me her typical look of concern. “Have you eaten?”
“No, but I’m fine, Mama.”
She waves me off like she always does and while I shoot the breeze with Papa, she heats me a plate of leftovers. I’ve eaten sporadically the past few days, unable to get my thoughts under control. What I need now is a good meal, a shot or two of tequila, and a good night’s sleep.
“You look tired,” Mama states while I eat, threading her fingers through my hair. “You look upset too.”
“Camilla,” Papa warns.
Her eyes flash angrily in his direction. “He does look upset!”
I refrain from snickering, replying, “I’m fine, Mama. I’m not upset. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
She pats my hand as she settles into the chair next to me. “Is it Mia?”
It’s scary how well my mother knows me, how she can take one look at my face and instantly know what’s going on in my head. “Yeah, it is.”
Never one to get between Mama and one of her interrogations, Papa wanders off to the den, plops down in front of the television, and is instantly engrossed in some fishing show.
“Did you get … close with her on your trip?”
Talking about who I’m sleeping with to my mother is taboo in my book, so I simply respond, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
She throws me a concerned look. “She’s in love with you, you know.”
My stomach jolts and my heart picks up speed. “Yes, she is.” I smile at the memory of Mia’s less than romantic declaration of love and her unpredictable ass-whooping. Not that I wanted to hear it then, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear it now. Love is the last thing I want her to feel for someone like me.
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nbsp; “And you, my sweet boy? Do you love her as well?”
This time my stomach rolls, sending nausea racing up my throat. Tossing down the fork, I shove the mostly uneaten food aside and cradle my head in my hands. “I don’t know, Mama. She has me running in circles, and I simply don’t know if I can do this again.”
“Do you believe you could love her?”
“I have no idea. There’s so much about her that’s lovable. But she scares me.”
My mother, ever the wise one, pops off with, “You’re scared, my son, because if you let yourself love her, you might need to let Daniella go.”
“Mama,” I warn.
She throws up her hands and leans close. “Do you truly believe Daniella would want you unhappy for all these years? Do you believe in your heart that she wouldn’t want you to love again?”
What she says makes sense. Too much sense actually. I know she’s right. There was no one more loving than Dani, and she would have hated the person I’ve become. But the idea of saying goodbye to her and letting go of the grief that I’ve carried around for so long doesn’t feel possible at this point. I’m almost too used to shouldering the pain on my own. Just the simple fact that I spent five days in and out of bed with Mia goes to show that I’ve made some progress in stepping forward in my life, but does that really mean I’m ready to say goodbye to my past and embrace my future? I have no damn idea.
“Niño, the day after you left here and Mia stayed, she was very upset and crying her heart out over you. She and I had a nice, long talk.” She shakes her head. “I told her that you have a fragile heart.” Her eyes meet mine as her hand cups my cheek. “She has a fragile heart too, my son. You need to remember that.”
“I know she does, Mama. That’s why this is so difficult.”
“It does not have to be,” she says softly. “Let yourself love her. Open your heart to the idea that she could be the one.”
As conflicted as I am, I know for certain that I don’t want to hurt Mia, not anymore. Her heart is fragile and gentle and open and sweet, and the idea of breaking what makes her so amazing makes me feel sick. She deserves to smile every day, to have someone treat her like there’s no one else more important than her. Sickening as the thought may be, I do believe there’s a better man out there who can do the job. Me … I’m a constant work in progress.
“You deserve to be happy, my sweet boy.” Her steady eyes fill with tears. “You deserve the love Mia wants to give you. Let her, Niño. Let her love you.”
Gathering her close, I wonder if I’ll ever be as sure about anything as my mother seems to be. She has such a calm, concerted way of looking at life and at love. I know what she wants most is to see her children happy.
I believe with all my heart that Mia can make me happy. What I question most is my ability to do the same for her. The thought of us getting closer, and then me screwing it up somehow, is what keeps me silent. The reality of that happening is what has kept me apart from her in the past few days, when I’ve really wanted nothing more than to go to her, gather her in my arms, and just let everything happen as it was meant to.
She believes I don’t trust her, and it’s truly the furthest thing from the truth. I trust that she sees in me something redeeming. I trust that she’ll treat me with care and respect, and yes … that she’ll love me too. I trust everything about her. What I don’t trust is myself, my ability to love her like she deserves or making her happy for the long term. And until that happens, I need to keep my distance. As much as I hate the idea of staying away, it’s what’s best for her, and that is all that matters.
By the time the end of the week rolls around, I’m bleary eyed from lack of sleep, too much tequila, and far too much over-thinking. Last night I sat on my closet floor, staring at Dani’s picture for hours, imagining what our life would have been like had she lived. Then I rooted around the house, locating more pictures I’d stashed throughout the years: a few of her alone and a handful of us together. In each and every picture was a young man that I hardly remember. Was I really that happy once? Did I really give love so freely and without a second thought?
In the years since losing her, I’ve managed to erase that person entirely, and only now am I beginning to see a glimpse of the person I once was. But if the past week is any indication, it’s far too easy for me to remain the cold, arrogant bastard I’ve become rather than open up and accept the man I became with Mia in New Orleans.
A knock sounds at the office door, and I turn away from the window to watch Mia step inside. She’s dressed in her usual uniform of a black suit and white blouse, hair pulled back on top, leaving the cascade of curls to drape like silk down her back. She remains much as she did when she first came to work for me, eyes downcast and avoiding mine. Although I try to dismiss the uneasiness that immediately threads through my entire body, I force a neutral expression and wait for her to begin.
“I wanted to confirm your eight a.m. meeting on Monday morning.”
Offhandedly, I notice she no longer refers to me as sir. In fact, she no longer refers to me by name at all, unless it is absolutely necessary. “Yes. We’ll meet in the conference room.”
She nods and taps on the tablet screen. “Fine. I’ll make sure there are coffee and pastries.”
“Thank you, Miss Elliott.”
Her eyes dart to mine, filled with pain and a whole ton of anger that’s directed right at me. “You’re welcome.” She cannot hide the fury in her voice at my use of the too-formal name or the fact that the words come out sounding like they’re laced with disdain.
I need to say something, anything, but the words simply won’t come. Maybe this is how it has to be, ending it before it really starts and making her so angry she’s almost happy to be rid of me.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Moran? Easy fucking out.
With one last glare, she pivots on her heel and steps out of the office, slamming the door with enough power to rattle the walls and leaving me wondering if there’s any way to dig myself out of this shithole I’m submersed in.
The rest of the afternoon is quiet and even though I’ve gotten nothing accomplished today, I have been able to keep my distance from Mia. She spoke to me only once before she left, when she barked into the intercom and informed me she was leaving for the day.
I can’t blame her for being pissed. A week ago we were strolling through the streets of New Orleans hand in hand, sharing a kiss in a booth in a restaurant, and ending the night with me deep inside of her. Just thinking about that now, my entire body flares to life, and like every other night of this past week, I talk myself down from seeking her out. Doing so will accomplish nothing, except to ease some of the ache I have for her. An ache I fear will never, ever go away.
I finally head for home around eight, irritated that I wasted another day dwelling on all the things I cannot change. Hopefully being away from her for a few days will give me some perspective on our situation, though the idea of a long, lonely weekend sure as hell does not sound appealing. For once, work is not my top priority. My head simply isn’t in the game.
I’m winding down a long workout when I hear the ring of the doorbell, chiming loudly throughout the entire house. In all my absentmindedness, I think with a mumbled curse, I must have left the front gate open, allowing a visitor to stroll right up to the front door instead of requesting access to my home from the keypad out front. Damn … the last thing I want or need is to deal with one of my siblings, the only people who would ever show up here unannounced on a Friday night.
Swiping my sweaty face, chest and arms with a towel, I loop it around my neck and make my way to the front door. Pulling it open, I find Mia standing there, keys in hand, that curvy body of hers decked out in workout gear. Her dark eyes instantly flash to mine, though I notice she doesn’t once hesitate to skim her gaze over my bare torso. She may be pissed off and not speaking to me, but she does nothing to hide the fact that she wants me just as much as she did when we were in New Orleans.
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Heat immediately burns between us as we stand there, silently assessing one another and refusing to be the first to speak. Hell … talking is the last thing I want, especially with her hard nipples greeting me like they are. But I should at least offer her something to drink before I do any of the number of things my body is begging me to do. To hell with all the silence of the past week. I need this woman and I need her now.
Before I can say a word, however, she reaches out and thrusts a white envelope in my face. “Here is my resignation letter.”
My stomach shoots south and a strange pain sets up shop in my chest. I expected a slap in the face, maybe a good tongue lashing, but this … this is not only unexpected, it hurts in a way nothing has in a long, long, time. “You’re resigning? Why?”
She thrusts the envelope at me again. “I can’t do this anymore.”
My head may not be in a great place, but I do know that I can’t let her go. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Please, Mia. Come in and talk to me.”
Her laugh is filled with bitterness. “Now you want to talk? After you’ve spent an entire week ignoring me and pretending like nothing happened between us?”
Repressed anger suddenly flares to life and for a millisecond, I consider that I should probably keep my mouth shut until I’ve had time to consider the enormity of her words. That passes too quickly though and suddenly I’m snarling, “How exactly was I supposed to handle it? Was I supposed to forget you work for me and suddenly treat you differently because we’ve fucked a few times?”
She winces. “Wow, I completely misjudged you.” Since I’ve ignored her outstretched hand, she steps in long enough to drop the envelope onto the small table that’s just inside the doorway. “You have two weeks to find someone else.”
Taking her hand in mine as she moves past me, I state, “I don’t want anyone else.”