For 100 Reasons (100 3)

A thin scoff escapes her. “I can’t imagine why.”

“I think you can.”

She’s pissed off, and as much as I hate being the target of her loathing, I can’t help wondering if last night at Gavin’s restaurant has anything to do with it. The question kept me awake for hours after I left the place. More than once, I had keys in hand, half-tempted to seek her out no matter the time. Instead, after pacing the penthouse like a caged animal until the sun rose, I wasn’t about to go the entire day without seeing her.

“How did you know where to find me?” There is challenge in her voice, and in the narrowed stare that searches my gaze. “Don’t try to tell me you just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“No. I wasn’t.” At my admission, she folds her arms, her expression perturbed but far from shocked. “I wanted to see you. I drove by your place in Forest Hills this morning, but you were already out. I checked for you at the studio in Harlem too. Lita said she didn’t know where you were—right before she told me to go to hell and slammed the door in my face.”

Avery’s stare remains stubbornly militant. “Good to know someone’s got my back.”

I don’t doubt that all of her friends despise me. They have every right to. They’re protective of her, the way people who care for one another are supposed to be. They’re loyal and true. All the things I wanted to be for Avery, tried to be, but failed.

It’s too late to take anything back. I can’t undo any of it. The wounded look on her face warns me not to even try, but I’ve never been good at taking direction.

“Since you weren’t anywhere else I looked, I assumed you might be with Tasha at Vendange.”

She exhales sharply. “You assume a lot. What if I was on a date?” She tosses the suggestion out at me like a volley shot over my bow. “Would you have come after me there too?”

I don’t reply because there is no need. She can probably read the answer in my hot, unflinching stare. “Fortunately for both of us, you aren’t on a date.”

As she frowns up at me, I consider the eager, ruddy-faced art history professor who’d been her escort at the university reception earlier this week. Although I hadn’t known anything about the congenial bastard until that night, I am considerably more informed now.

Brandon Snyder is a hardworking, decent man from a solid, middle-class family upstate. Stellar academic and public records. Not a single blemish on his character anywhere to be found.

Because damn it, I’ve looked.

After realizing he was dating Avery, I made it my next day’s mission to unearth every piece of data I could find on him.

In the end, all I found was a man far better suited for her than I ever could be.

Hell, if I’m keeping score, there are countless men in this city who deserve Avery more than I do. But not any one of them will ever love her the way I did . . . the way I still do.

They’ll never please her the same way.

They’ll never hurt her so deeply, either.

I lift my hand before I realize what I’m doing, needing to touch her. She steps back as if I mean to strike her instead of caress her.

“No. Don’t.” A firm shake of her head sends her loose blonde hair sifting around her shoulders. “You don’t get to do that anymore, Nick. You don’t have the right. Not that you ever did.”

“I suppose I deserve that.”

“And then some.”

Apparently, she’s had enough. She moves to the right as if to step around me. I counter, cutting off her escape. “Have you eaten yet?”

“What?”

“Lunch. I’m starving, and there’s no point in standing here trying to have a conversation in the middle of the sidewalk. So, what do you say? Let’s go somewhere more private and talk.”

“Let me guess,” she replies, sarcasm lacing every syllable. “Somewhere private as in back to your place? Maybe you think we should have this conversation in your bed?”

Christ. It wasn’t my intention to bring her home with me today, but my cock and everything else male in me responds with swift approval. “I’m definitely not opposed to the idea.”

The frown creasing her forehead deepens. “You’re unbelievable. If you want to share a meal and some conversation with someone—or anything else—I’m sure you have plenty of other options available to you. In fact, why don’t you start with the blonde you had dinner with last night?”

I scowl, if only to cover the satisfaction I feel in seeing Avery’s jealousy spike even after all this time. Even after everything that stands between us. “You mean Simone? What do you know about her?”