“I just want to make the right choice this time.” Panic washes over me. What if I choose him, and he breaks my heart? He said he wouldn’t walk away, but what does that really mean?
“Talk to Devon. Lay out your cards.”
“If we’d just had more time together.” Turmoil swirls as a hollow feeling fills up my chest. “He suspects something . . .” I close my lids, picturing the probing looks when he carried me to bed, as if he were searching for my soul . . . “He’s afraid to ask, because he knows I can’t not tell him the truth.”
We talk a little longer; then I get off the phone and sit in front of the window as I search the skyline for answers. Four thousand five hundred ninety-eight miles away, there’s CERN.
When the first rays of light peek over the horizon, I pull myself together, tired and broken, my chest aching. I tiptoe back to Devon and run my eyes over his face, hypnotized by him, the high forehead, the stark cheekbones, the taut forearms with butterflies. I’m flying away from him, and no matter how many times I keep trying to convince myself our thread won’t break, my heart knows the truth.
Lay your cards out.
I will, I will, just not today. I slip into his arms, my cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beats as I drift off to sleep in his arms.
Chapter 27
DEVON
“Numbers spiked this week. Ten percent profit, probably fall semester starting at local colleges,” Selena tells me, shuffling papers around on her desk inside her office on Thursday.
“Hmm, right.” I frown as I glance down at the spreadsheet she put in my hands. I pace around the small space. “You need a bigger office,” I tell her, my tone distracted.
Giselle.
I rub my forehead, scraping down my face to my jaw. She’s up and down, one minute reaching for me with greedy hands, the next hiding her face in her laptop, barely noticing when I say something. This morning I made us breakfast, and she didn’t even complain when I ate most of the bacon.
“Did you get me tickets to the pregame Saturday?” Selena asks.
“Hmm, yeah.”
“Did you get me the seats I wanted?”
“Fifty-yard line with Elena and Giselle.”
“Postgame room entry, so I can see all your bumps and bruises?”
“Sure, whatever you want.”
“Can I bring ten friends?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Evan, the superasshole? The one I met online who stalked me. Can he come?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t say. Fascinating. How about comps for that brisket vendor who puts waffle fries on the top? Plus all the drink tickets?”
“Okay.”
There’s silence, and I’m vaguely aware of Selena tapping her pen as I pull out my phone to see if Giselle’s texted me. I told her I’d be late for dinner, and she hasn’t replied. She had a meeting with Robert about a publisher, but that was earlier. She said something about Hobby Lobby and shadow boxes, then taking Myrtle to the doctor, but she’d still have her phone—
“What’s up with you?” she asks on a laugh, interrupting my thoughts, as she walks over to me. “I told you you’re making bank this month, and you acted like it’s chump change. If I asked for a company car to drive the one mile from my place to here, you’d probably give it to me right now. I’d like an old-school Trans Am, white with a blue stripe down the hood—I know, redneck, but there it is.”
“Yeah, not redneck. Sounds good. Giselle . . . something’s not right with us.” I rake my hand through my hair, unease crawling over me as I plop down on a chair. On the surface, things look fine, she and I consuming each other in heady doses, neither of us able to get enough of touching and kissing and fucking. Maybe I’m crazy to worry; maybe it’s just her mama’s prayer messing with me, about Giselle being chaste on her wedding day, and knowing I’ve pretty much shot the hell out of that pipe dream. I’m in with Giselle, and I want her, and there’s more, so much more eating at me, itching to make us permanent—wait, no, that’s crazy; it’s too fast. I’m just reaching, reeling in the off-the-charts sex and intensity of my heart wanting to cleave to hers, wanting to bind us, to kiss her every day, to make her need me like air. My thoughts shift direction, fear pricking as I replay Sunday. Was it Dr. Benson, something she said . . . ?
But why wouldn’t Giselle tell me?
My fingers trace one of the butterflies on my arm. Is she tired of me already? My head recalls some of the revealing shit I’ve said during sex. Am I too intense? Too needy?
“Ah, dude, you’re crazy about her,” Selena murmurs as I look up to meet her soft gaze.