Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard 4)

This was a knife to my gut and I pulled back, pained. And even though her lip trembled and her hands shook at her sides, even though I still saw every ounce of the emotion in her eyes that she had only a week ago, she didn’t take her sharp reprimand back, not with words or expression.

I could push her. I saw it now, and another man—a more aggressive man—may have stepped closer, taken advantage of the pain in her eyes. If I kissed her right now, she would kiss me back. I could sense it in the way she watched my mouth, the way she continued to shake.

Ruby still loved me as I loved her.

I could press my way inside, put my hands on her body, peel away her clothes and give her pleasure, taste her sweat. With my mouth and hands and words I may even have been able to convince her for a night that I truly did love her.

But she already was struggling with how much she’d lost the sense of herself in her feelings for me. I couldn’t manipulate her like that.

I pulled at my hair, completely torn. “Tell me what to do. If I leave, you’ll think I don’t feel for you. If I stay, I’m not listening to your wishes.”

“Niall,” she whispered. “I can barely be this close to you without feeling like I’d give you anything. It’s your turn to be patient.”

I swallowed thickly and stepped back, walking two paces without turning. “Come to me,” I said, begging quietly. “When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting for you. Let me catch up in my time spent longing if you need me to. Distance from you won’t extinguish what I feel.”

She nodded, eyes filling.

“Promise you’ll come to me when you’re ready. Even if it just means you’re ready to tell me it’s truly over.”

Ruby nodded again. “I promise.”

Seventeen

Ruby

April was hell, but May was worse. At least in April I could replay, again and again, the memory of how Niall had looked coming to my flat, eyes wild and anxious. I could still hear how his voice sounded—so deep and hoarse and desperate—when he’d said he loved me.

But in May, I hadn’t seen him in a month, and it was nearly impossible to convince myself that his affection hadn’t begun to dissolve.

The Number of Days I Needed Niall Stella to Give Me Space: unknown.

I’d felt like the needy, frantic girl, waiting for him to have dinner with the ex and then decide if I was the better option. I’d never been so desperate for a late-night phone call as I was the night he was at her place for dinner, but when it came . . . I ignored it. Not until he realized what I’d known all along—that Portia had never been good for him, that in fact I was the best thing for him—did I realize that I was . . . really, really mad.

I knew I was capable of taking things in stride in a way that surprised Niall. It surprised people my whole life. But that evenness didn’t mean I couldn’t get hurt, be angry, feel betrayed.

Somehow, even with the heavy pulse of heartbreak in every step I took, I had managed to piece little bits of my life back together. I was determined to salvage my chances at getting into Margaret Sheffield’s program. So, in early April, after days of sleep and silence, of nibbling sandwiches made from stale bread and hard cheese and sleeping in my clothes, I’d pulled myself together and taken a train to Oxford.

There, Professor Sheffield had assured me that Anthony’s letter could only hold so much weight, that my grades and reputation from San Diego were impressive. But although she’d given me no indication that the distraction my former boss mentioned in his letter would lead to my rejection from the program, she hadn’t said I was a sure thing, either.

While I waited to hear, I stayed in London. I was lucky enough to find a firm on the South Bank in need of an engineer to cover an early maternity leave. It was an easy solution and paid well, but on my very first day I decided to walk home rather than take the Tube, only to then realize I would pass just two blocks away from Niall’s flat.

Gut punch.

So of course it became impossible to choose to take the Tube rather than walk. Every day I felt my body tilt that way, as if pulled by some enormous heart magnet. And when I would press on, heading straight instead of right, it would hurt all over again.

His distance and reserve really had been so impossible to take; everything was logical to him: Portia was ready to speak so he should listen. I had always encouraged him to communicate with me, and so of course that should apply to Portia, as well.

I feel obligated to at least hear what she wants to say.

I suppose I’m trying to have an open mind. I owe her that, at least.

That last day it seemed emotion hadn’t come into play for Niall at all, until it felt too late. But for me, it was nearly impossible to get the echoing pain out of my head.