I have to leave. I have to do it now before my emotions get any more volatile. I was a fool to have let it get this far. Letting it continue would be insanity.
My lips tremble as I lean over and press a kiss to his cheek. This will be the last time I feel his skin against mine and smell the warmth of his cologne. I want to cling to this moment and relish every bit of comfort I can find because as soon as this moment is over, I’ll never have it back.
It will be as close as I’ll ever get to love.
It hurts too damn much.
“Good luck,” I say, hoping he doesn’t hear the frog in my throat. I open the door and hurry out of the car. By the time the door shuts, I’m already on the steps.
I don’t look back. Whether it’s my subconscious telling me to keep going forward or simply because I don’t want to torture myself anymore—and that’s what I’d be doing if I look back—I’m not sure. But I press on and open the door using the code on the keypad and slip inside the house.
Cool air kisses my cheeks, making the drips of my tears cold.
I slide my back against the wall of the foyer—the same wall Holt held me against after the concert.
I was different then. Full of hope. Teased with the taste of having someone who thought I was worth their most valuable commodity: time.
I was fucking stupid.
Tears fall steadily down my face as I look around Holt’s home.
“I’ll be honest—I didn’t really think you being here all the way through before inviting you.”
My hands are smeared black from mascara as I wipe my face. It’s a physical show of what a mess I am. I turn to go up the stairs when the front door opens.
My head spins to the right, and my breath catches in my throat.
Holt stands in the doorway.
He slides his sunglasses off his face and takes in the sight before him.
Shit.
“Blaire …”
I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders. I give him my best unaffected smile.
Clearly, my cheeks are stained with mascara, and my lips are swollen like they always are when I’m upset. But I pretend none of that exists.
“What’s going on?” he asks carefully, silencing his phone as it rings in his hand.
“I’m just getting ready to take a bath.”
He furrows his brow. “That wasn’t what I was asking, and you know it.”
“Did you forget something?”
My heart pounds in my chest as I feel my way through this conversation. I thought I’d have a better handle on myself before I had to speak about this whole mess.
Who am I kidding? I’d hoped to be gone and never have to talk about it at all.
Concern sweeps across his features.
“Cut the crap, Blaire. What’s going on?”
“I’m fine. Things just got the best of me today.”
He steps farther inside the house and closes the door behind him. The latch is loud and crisp.
I start up the steps as though I didn’t just get caught on the cusp of breaking down.
“Blaire. Stop.”
His tone is rough; the edges of his words bristling with irritation. It’s not at all the tenderness I’d hoped to hear. But what it does do is confirm what I overheard at his parents’ house.
He has no intention of giving me any piece of his life.
I’m a distraction to his work, a needy woman who demands too much of his time. And now, after seeing me cry, he’ll think I’m an emotional train wreck just like Jack said too.
I will never, ever share my emotions with a man again.
I place a hand on the rail but don’t move again. Instead, I stand there and gaze up at the landing and wish I’d have gone straight to pack my suitcase instead of stopping in the foyer.
“I need you to go to the office,” I tell him. My words are muddled through the constriction in my throat.
Speaking is hard. My chest burns. A bubble of emotions sits at the base of my throat, and I don’t know what to do with them.
“I don’t want to go to the office,” he says slowly. “I want to talk to you.”
“You shouldn’t have come back.”
“I never left.”
Against my best interests, I turn my head. He’s standing in the middle of the room, framed by the elaborate door behind him. There’s a war happening in his bright green eyes.
“I don’t have time to do this with you right now and get to the office before the investors show up,” he says, blowing out a breath. He looks down as his phone rings again. The lines in his forehead deepen. “I’m worried about you. Will you just talk to me?”
“There’s not a lot to talk about. I got a text from Yancy, and the building is open again,” I tell him. “I’m going to catch a flight tonight.”