Make It Sweet

Her expression soured. “But it will, Lucian. With you, it will.” She lifted her chin, her body unyielding, and angled away from me. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable—”

“It doesn’t.” Christ, she was a gift. And I’d gone and thrown her away. I took a step toward her, a little desperate knowing that I was losing her.

But she was already backing up. “And it might be easy for you to keep emotion out of it—”

“That’s the point, Em. I can’t either. Not with you.”

A sad smile played on her lush lips. “No, that is the point. You know this can be something more, and you don’t want it.”

I want it. I just don’t deserve it. I’ll break you. Like I’m broken.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Her smile twisted into something pained. “Don’t worry. You stopped it before that could happen.”

With an audible inhale, she ran her hand through her hair, as though gathering herself. “I’m going to go.”

“No.” I flexed my fingers, trying to figure out how to salvage something between us, trying not to reach for her. She’d been mine for such a short time. Not enough.

It’s for the best. Do it for her.

“We can still hang out,” I tried, cringing even as I said it. “Be . . .”

“Friends?” She shook her head, looking at me as though I was dull witted. “I’m afraid I can’t be friends with someone I want to fuck.”

“Hell, honey, you’re killing me here.”

But she didn’t smile; her eyes were dull, that pretty mouth I hadn’t tasted enough a flat line. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Emma

I didn’t take Lucian’s rejection well. One would think that the years of struggling to make it in the toughest business in the world would have rendered me immune to rejection. I’d been told no in so many ways, in such harsh terms, it should have been easy to hear one more.

But it was expected in acting. You took your knocks and kept going. You held your head up when they said you were too short, too fat, too flat chested, too young, too old. You told yourself that you put up with the shit because there was gold at the end of the rainbow. Some days that worked. Some days that didn’t.

Rejection from Lucian, however, was an entirely different thing. It was a kick in the teeth, a punch to my chest. It hurt.

The worst of it was he’d been the responsible one in the room, the adult. I had forgotten all about where I was, who I was, who he was. None of that had mattered. I’d simply wanted him. But he was right; I was on vacation, and he was unwilling to even try out a relationship. Better to make that clear before all sorts of messy emotions got involved.

I couldn’t do casual sex with him. I knew it as much as he did. So I’d lied and told him I wasn’t hurt. Even as the cold ball of rejection and regret grew to epic proportions in my chest.

It grew in size and heaviness when I woke to find yet another breakfast basket on my doorstep. Lucian had gone all out this time, including my favorite fruits, perfectly ripe, sliced, and shaped into arrangements that looked like blooming flowers. Thick, creamy fresh yogurt with a golden-honey drizzle and toasted walnuts. Four different types of jams and, of course, the breads. An array of sweet and savory little breads for me to choose from.

I sent the basket back untouched. It was petty, but I had no appetite. Nor could I seem to make myself eat his food. I just couldn’t. It hurt too much. It made me angry as well. I did not want his care in this way. Not if I couldn’t have the rest of him.

See? Petty.

Not petty. Guarded. You have to protect yourself.

I snorted at that and made myself some coffee—not as good as his—choked it down, then went to talk to Amalie. I had to tell her I was leaving. I couldn’t stay at Rosemont anymore.

Amalie texted that she was in the red living room. She’d helpfully included a map of the house, which made me smile. Rosemont’s main house was huge, but with graceful proportions that made it seem, well, not cozy, exactly, but comfortable.

I made my way along the back terrace. Dappled sunlight glimmered beneath the teak arbors laced with purple wisteria that hung like grapes overhead. Each room that faced the back of the house had a massive set of glass doors, all thrown open to let in the fresh air.

Finally, I found Amalie in a beautiful room that might as well have been set in colonial Spain with its exposed timber beams, hand-painted Spanish tiles of blue and gold, and softly worn plaster walls. Amalie lounged on a large plush sofa covered in cream damask. Like a queen, she waved me in with a graceful roll of her wrist.