The Casanova (The Miles High Club 3)

I can see it so clearly now—he and I had fun, but he was always searching for the dream, the fairy-tale ending.

And I’m not talented or special, least of all extraordinary.

It was never me.

And I hate that for a brief moment I forgot that—it hurts.

I remember the love that we made, the laughter we had. The tenderness we shared.

It felt so real.

Like a fairy tale to me, only better.

My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away.

Maybe he won’t go?

Paul walks past and glances in and then stops in his tracks and comes back. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” I fake a smile with a subtle shake of my head. “Sorry, just had some bad news about a relative.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“No,” I answer way too fast, I don’t want Elliot to know that I know. “I’m fine. Just a bit teary, don’t pay me any attention.”

“There’s some birthday cake in the staff-room fridge, you want some?”

I smile, grateful for the kindness. “I do. Bring the whole damn thing.”

It’s 11 p.m. and I sit at the window and stare out over the street.

The house is quiet for the night and my facade has dropped. I went out to dinner with Daniel and Rebecca tonight and had to pretend that everything was great between Elliot and I.

I couldn’t tell them what I know or how, and I’ve been lying to them about my Pinkie persona too.

This situation is one big fucked-up deception and I deserve to have my heart broken alone.

And maybe if Elliot cared enough to want to see me, I would tell him so.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s at Enchanted thinking about her.

My eyes well with tears and I close them in regret. I hate this, I hate the whole fucking thing.

A car comes around the corner and I watch it slowly pull in and park. Elliot gets out.

Oh no.

Shit.

I run and dive into bed, pick up my phone: five missed calls from Elliot.

I hear a knock downstairs and then Daniel’s voice.

I pull the blankets up over me and pretend to sleep, my heart racing hard and fast, and I inhale deeply to try and calm myself down.

My bedroom door opens and Elliot comes in and sits beside me on the bed. “Babe,” he says softly, “are you awake?”

I roll toward him and he takes my face in his hand and I stare up at him.

“Hi,” he whispers sadly.

“Hi.” I force a smile.

“I have to go to France tomorrow, sweetheart,” he whispers.

My heart constricts. He’s here to say goodbye.

I nod, unable to push a word past my lips.

“Can I stay?” he asks.

I clench my hands into fists; how am I supposed to do this?

Say goodbye with love when he’s breaking my fucking heart?

I should be kicking him out, I should be punching him square in the face.

I should hate him.

He takes his clothes off and climbs in beside me. His lips take mine, and I can feel the heartbreak as it radiates out of him. He’s right here in hell with me.

This isn’t his fault, he’s a good man.

His eyes search mine. “Tell me you love me,” he whispers. “Just once.”

My heart begins to ache and I know this is it, our last dance together; his silhouette blurs. “I love you.”

We kiss, and my face screws up against his.

Don’t go.

For a long time, we kiss, until my heart can’t take it anymore. I need this goodbye over . . . I can’t do this.

I’m not strong enough. “I need you,” I whisper.

He crawls over me and slides in deep, his head buried in my shoulder, and I screw up my face as I stare at the ceiling.

He moves slowly, carefully, as if I’m breakable. He always said that he loves me when I’m vulnerable.

Here I am in Imax; I’ve never felt so unprotected in my life.

Defenseless.

His body heats up and he moves slowly to bring himself closer. He spreads his knees and wraps my legs around his hips, but I have no chance of climaxing tonight.

How could I possibly feel physical pleasure when I’m in such pain?

He may as well be stabbing me in the heart, it would feel the same.

He holds himself deep and shudders as he comes. His lips run up and down my neck, a tender love song of affection.

I stare at the ceiling, lifeless.

I feel the hot lone tear roll down my face and into my ear.

He rolls off me and falls onto his back, glances over and sees my tears, and throws his forearm over his eyes, as if to shield himself. He’s unable to deal with me.

Or unwilling.

After a while, “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispers.

I stay silent and stare at the ceiling, my heart shattering into a million pieces.

Go to hell.

The dawn light peeks through the side of the blinds, and I watch him put his suit on from my place in bed. Gone is my tender lover from last night.