“I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper.
“What?” He tilts his head to the side in confusion.
Unsure if his response is because he can’t hear me over the music, or if he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say, I repeat myself, this time louder. “I can’t do this anymore.” Then I add, “I’m not happy.”
This time his eyes widen, indicating he heard and understood me. “What is it you want, Celeste?” he asks, clearly aggravated. Chad is a businessman. When there’s a problem, he fixes it. But he can’t fix this. He can’t fix us. He can’t fix me.
“I want…” I glance out at all the couples still dancing. Olivia has her head thrown back in laughter as Nick whispers into her ear. Giselle’s eyes are filled with a mixture of lust and love as Killian holds her close to him, his fingers digging into her ass possessively. Even Mercedes, who isn’t much different from me, is smiling as her husband holds her tight. My eyes land on Jase, who now has his back to me. The woman he’s dancing with has her arms around his neck and her face plastered against his chest.
“Celeste,” Chad says, bringing my attention back to him. “What do you want? What will make you happy?”
“Love,” I say softly, yet loud enough for him to hear. “I want to be in love.” Tears prick my eyes as memories of Jase holding me in bed surface. Of the way he made love to me. The way he would hold my hand and kiss me. It might not have been love on his end, but it was on mine. And while I have no desire to ever be with that two-timing asshole again, I want to feel what I felt when I was with him. I want to feel the butterflies attacking my belly, and my heartstrings being tugged. I want someone to look at me the way Nick and Killian look at Olivia and Giselle. I want to be somebody’s entire world.
Chad blinks slowly, his face completely devoid of all emotion. He knows there’s no fixing this problem. Our relationship has never been about love, and Chad isn’t capable of loving anything but his business. No words need to be spoken to know we’re over.
Six
Jase
I’m standing in the middle of the dance floor while a woman, who I’m not the least bit attracted to, grinds and shakes her ass all over the front of my body, while I chant over and over again in my head not to look back and make eye contact with Celeste. The woman turns around and her arms snake around my neck. Her head falls to my chest and her thigh pushes through the middle of my legs as she attempts to rub her knee against my dick. I’ve had enough.
When she asked to dance, I had just witnessed—who looks to be—Celeste’s white-collar, rich-as-shit boyfriend approach and kiss her. He was sporting a suit, one that screams wealth and power, but looks douchy-as-fuck when worn in a club. Needing to take my mind off them, I accepted this woman’s proposition to dance, but now I’m regretting it. Because the longer I stand here and smell her cheap perfume, the more I crave the sweet scent of Celeste.
It’s been over ten years, and I only had her for a week—one fucking week—but I can still remember how she smelled—a perfect mixture of her natural scent, that sweet, rose lotion she would rub all over her body, and me. I’ve been with several women over the years, but not one of them smells like Celeste did. And that makes me wonder, if I walked over to the booth and dragged her away from her boyfriend, would she still smell the same? Or would it be different because she’s no longer with me? She’s no longer in my bed, in my clothes. She’s older now, more refined, but just as fucking gorgeous as she was back then. Maybe the smell I remember is only because she was with me. If I brought her home and forced her to stay in my bed all weekend, could I get her to smell like I remember, again?
Unable to take another second of my back toward her, I peel the woman’s arms off me and back away, turning my body toward where Celeste is sitting…only she’s no longer there—and neither is the guy she was with.
“I need a drink,” I tell the woman. Her face lights up, taking my words as an invitation to join me. “Alone,” I add. Her lips turn down into a frown, but I don’t care. I’m too annoyed to care.
“You sure?” She flutters her fake eyelashes. “I can give—”
“I’m sure,” I say, cutting her off, not giving a shit what she can give me.