The Two Week Stand (Sizzling Beach 1)

Shit. That was fast. I quickly glance at the clock. It’s not even been an hour yet. Forty minutes at the most.

Oh God, he hates it, doesn’t he? I mean, it’s not been long, so he couldn’t have read that much—unless he’s a speed-reader. Even then, there’s no way he could have finished a seventy-thousand-word book in that time. But then he doesn’t have to read the whole book to hate it. Just the first part. Or maybe he’s just taking a break, and I need to stop freaking out.

I sit up straight, put my coffee cup down, and smile at him. “Hey. All okay?”

He stays near the doorway, and I notice that he’s wearing a shirt now.

Oh, maybe he has to go out somewhere, and that’s why he stopped reading. Okay, I can relax now.

“You going out somewhere?” I ask him.

“No.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I read the ending, Dillon.”

“Oh, um, okay.” I laugh, but it sounds awkward to my own ears because I now have this off feeling in the pit of my stomach.

His voice sounded as stale as yesterday’s bread, and the only time he calls me Dillon is when he’s inside of me or annoyed with me. And he’s definitely not inside me at the moment.

“So … did you hate it? Because it’s fine if you did. I’m not sensitive. At all.” I’m totally sensitive when it comes to my work, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Is that how you see this going?” He points at me and then himself. “Me declaring my undying love for you and proposing? Us getting married and having some fucking happily ever after?”

“What?” That off feeling in my stomach turns into worry. I push up from the sofa, getting to my feet. “No, of course not.”

“You sure about that?” His expression is closed off. His jaw tight. He looks … resigned.

And that tightens the strings of worry inside me.

“Of course I’m sure. Just because I wrote the ending of the story that way doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a story.”

“About us.”

“Loosely based on us.”

“I read the beginning before I skipped to the ending. Everything about it—how we met, et cetera—is exactly as it was.”

“You knew I was going to do that! But I can’t finish the story with a sad ending. People won’t want to read that. But writing it isn’t a reflection of what I’m hoping for.” But it is. If I’m really honest, it’s all I want.

“You’re telling me, that ending is purely fiction?”

“It is fiction when it hasn’t happened.”

He exhales a sigh, and the empty, desolate sound sets off an ache deep inside of me. Like I can hear all of his thoughts in that one breath, and none of them are good.

“What I read in there, that wasn’t an ending. It was the start of something, and we will have an ending, Dillon.” He pauses. “And I think that ending should be now.”

Even when you know something is coming, it doesn’t make the impact of it hurt any less. It’s like a physical blow to the body. And the hurt from his words is cutting through my skin and climbing into my blood and bones.

I stare at him, feeling lost, my heart racing with panic. There’s no air in my lungs. Like someone is standing on my chest, crushing the life out of me.

He doesn’t want this anymore.

Doesn’t want me.

Isn’t that the story of my life?

The unwanted child.

The unwanted fiancée.

Now, the unwanted fling.

Pain runs through my veins like poison.

I could argue with him. But what would be the point? I do want him. I want to be with him. And it would only delay the inevitable. Just because my heart was hoping for different … well, that’s on me, not him. The only person I have to blame is myself. Yes, at times, this felt like we were in a relationship. And there were signs that maybe he wanted more. Moments when I thought he might feel the same as I do.

But he doesn’t. I’m not what he wants.

“Okay.” My bottom lip trembles. I press my lips together and swallow past the burning ache that’s climbing its way up my throat. My insides are crumbling under the earthquake of devastation that I’m feeling. “I’ll … do I have time to look for a flight back home, or do you want me to leave right now?”

“Jesus, Dillon.” He shakes his head. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not fucking heartless.”

It’s right there on the tip of my tongue—to ask if he’s sure about that. But that’d be a shitty thing to say. West never promised me anything. He was clear from the start. It’s not his fault that I fell in love with him. That’s on me.

“I didn’t say … I just …” I wrap my arms over my stomach, needing to hold on to something and all I have is myself. “I’ll look for a flight now.” I pick my phone up from where I left it on the sofa. But I’m not sure where to go. I don’t want to stand here and look for a flight while the reason my heart is breaking is standing right there in front of me. “I’ll pack my things while I look.” I walk past him and to the bedroom, and it’s a stupid move on my part because his scent hits me straight in the solar plexus.