He looked over his shoulder, to the swelling group outside the hotel, and understood her meaning. With a nod, he placed a hand in the small of her back to usher her forward and, again, she stepped out of his hold. Moving with him but pretending he didn’t exist. She just needed to get home. Then she could let go. Let it all out and deal with the mess she had made of her life. Again.
She’d rebuilt it before, she could do it this time too.
Couldn’t she?
Her heart squeezed tight in her chest, pain like nothing she’d ever experienced piercing her and sending her step faltering.
He reached out, steadying her, the warmth of his hand permeating her skin, her belly, her heart. ‘Steady, baby.’
Baby—the endearment taunted her.
It wasn’t her life that needed rebuilding, it was her heart, and it was in tatters.
She’d thought she’d been in love with Charles. The very idea was now laughable in light of how she felt for the man beside her. The man who’d made it clear he could never give her what her heart now craved.
Well, you only have yourself to blame, said her inner conscience, and she wrapped her arms tighter around her middle, her pace picking up to increase the distance between them.
The sooner she got away from him, the better.
* * *
They sat in silence in the back of the car, each hugging their own side, the cabin filled with the heavy strain of the scene they had left behind. He’d tried to speak to her, but she’d refused. And he got that she didn’t want to talk but, hell, he had so many burning questions, the biggest of all he couldn’t even bring himself to ask. Fear of what she might say keeping it trapped inside.
But he couldn’t stand it any more and he found himself apologising. ‘I’m sorry I hit him.’
‘He deserved it,’ she said quietly, her eyes still on the window, her tear-streaked face illuminated intermittently under the passing street lights.
Fuck, this was killing him.
He needed to know.
Was she upset with him? Or was it really Charles? Had she loved the man that much? Was she still in love with him?
Bile rose to the back of his throat and he forced it down, courage failing him.
‘I’m sorry if it ends up front-page news tomorrow.’
‘I couldn’t give a fuck what the press make of it,’ he retorted, emotion getting the better of him. ‘The bastard did deserve that punch and I’ll make sure any reporter that listens knows it.’
She looked to him then, properly for the first time since it had all gone south, her sad smile a thousand times more poignant with the water welling once more beneath her eyelids. His heart ached and he reached for her on instinct, but she recoiled into her seat, her face and body turning away, everything rejecting him.
The nausea swelled in his gut; he was losing her.
Hell, you’ve already lost her.
He leant back into his seat, his own eyes turning unseeingly on his own window, confusion raining thick and heavy on his senses.
Is this what life will feel like without her in it? As if something’s missing?
Was this what it felt like to truly care for someone? To actually love someone...
He looked across at her, broken and curled into her seat, and inside he cracked, his fists clenching in his lap.
Ja, you love her, and just look where that’s got her. Not so good at escaping your parents’ example now, are you?
Kristus—he was no better than Charles. And she’d actually loved him. The lucky bastard had had it all and thrown it away.
Whereas he’d never even given them a chance. How could he convince her he had changed, that she had changed him?