He paled, not moving, still as naked as he’d been when he’d brought her to pleasure minutes before. “You’re walking away? Just like that?”
She met his eyes, refusing to let herself hurt because he wasn’t even trying to stop her from leaving. Why should he? They were just having fun. There was no obligation for him to try to make her happy or to resolve their fight. She might as well continue to prop up an icy facade, to appear as cold as he seemed to think she was. As cold as he was.
She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
And then she did it.
She left.
It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed and she stepped into her sneakers, hopping on one foot while holding on to the metal bar on the wall and trying to keep her balance, that she dropped the act and let the tears fall down her face—tears she had no right shedding over a guy who didn’t give a damn about her.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Chapter Fifteen
He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this.
If she wanted to end things, fine. She had that right. They had agreed early on that their date could easily be terminated on either side and that neither one of them had any claims to the other when that moment came. He stood by that promise, since he was a man of his word.
What he didn’t stand by was what he’d said that had caused her to leave him.
Comparing her to his past lovers had been wrong on so many levels, but her ripping apart everything he did and accusing him of being cold and dead inside had made the spark he’d been denying was inside him for the past week burst into a full-fledged combustion. He wasn’t cold and dead, and he did know what emotions were, and it was all her damn fault.
She’d broken past every defense he had in place to guard his life and himself, and she’d had the audacity to tell him that he was the grim reaper come to life.
He wasn’t. Not anymore.
Truth was, he never should have let himself get angry, or let go of his self-control…one of the many things she didn’t like about him. But look what happened when he did.
He said stupid shit that lost him the girl.
While there was probably no fixing that or going back in time to do things differently, he could fix the way she remembered him, at the very least. He could tell her the truth. And if that didn’t change anything, so be it. He would give her what she wanted. But first…
Time to lose control one more time.
He lifted his hand, knocked three times, and waited, heart pounding, to find out whether or not she’d let him in. Rage boiled through him, and, at the same time, panic—that she might not open the door. Would she give him a chance to make things right?
After an indeterminable amount of torturous time, the lock slid against metal, and the door opened slightly, and her face appeared through the thin crack. “How did you find out my apartment number?”
He rested a sweaty palm on the wall next to her door. Since when did he get nervous? He brokered million-dollar deals without so much as a bead of sweat. “I told you, I own this place.”
“I thought that was a joke, not for—” She cut herself off. “Never mind. Of course, it wasn’t a joke. You probably never joke about money, huh?”
He shook his head slightly. “I won’t apologize for having the foresight to buy this place when it was dirt cheap—or for keeping it open so people can live in it and I can make money off of it.”
She crossed her arms.
He met her eyes. Hers were bloodshot and devoid of makeup. A little red, too. Had she been crying? “May I come in?” he asked hesitantly.
“Sure, why not? I mean, it’s yours.” She stepped aside, letting him in. He drank in the sight of her home greedily, searching for any hints of the woman behind the mask. “Don’t mind the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
It wasn’t a mess at all…unless the blanket on the couch counted as “messy.” Her home was small, tidy, and personalized with flowers, pillows, a few books—and yet there wasn’t a single personal item that wouldn’t be in a model home. Just enough decorations to make it her style, along with a couch, a TV, a small dining room table with one chair, and a coffee table with a book on learning French lying in the middle. Oh, and a few cat toys in a basket in the corner.
Why was she learning French?
“Nice place,” he said, stopping short of her couch.
She remained standing, too, keeping her distance. “What are you doing here?”