The Casanova (The Miles High Club 3)

“Why?” I cry out loud. “What have I done to deserve this?”

I get to my apartment and I can’t face going inside, because then I have to sleep.

And then it will be morning, and too late to go back on what happened last night.

And I will know what he did.

I get a vision of Elliot and her waking up in bed and him being all witty and charming and wowing her with his sexuality and her falling madly in love with him.

How could she not?

There’s a lot to love about Elliot Miles.

I drop to sit on the bottom step and I stare into space. And as the rain comes down on top of me, wet, afraid, and alone . . . I cry.

It’s the silence that kills you. The things that aren’t said.

The closure you never got.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours. Four thousand, three hundred, and twenty minutes.

Too many seconds to count.

The clock ticks in my office. It’s like a megaphone, loud and annoying, reminding me of how time’s going by . . . with not a word.

Not even a text.

He’s with her.

I know that now, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

I really thought he loved me.

My faith in humanity is smashed to smithereens.

Did he even care about me at all? He couldn’t have . . . nobody could treat someone that they care about like this. The joke of it is that he doesn’t even know that I know what he’s doing in France.

Was that his plan, to just disappear on a business trip and ghost me . . . let me down easy? Push me to end it with him?

Maybe I’ll never hear from him again . . . nothing would surprise me any more.

It’s like I’m grieving a death all over again.

I still haven’t told my flatmates . . . I can’t.

I don’t feel strong enough to talk about it . . . so I avoid going home.

I’ve been going to the movies, loitering in restaurants. Spending five hours in the gym. I’ll do anything rather than bring this up and show everyone how weak I really am.

I hate myself for being so weak, I thought I was stronger than this.

Wednesday.

“Knock, knock.” A soft tap sounds on my office door. I glance up to see Christopher and I instantly get a lump in my throat.

Go away.

“Got a minute?” he asks softly.

No.

I force a smile and gesture to the seat at my desk. “Sure.”

He sits down and leans back and crosses his legs; his eyes hold mine.

He knows something.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Have you heard from Elliot?” he asks, his voice soft, cajoling.

I press my lips together hard. “No.”

He narrows his eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

“We haven’t been able to reach him.”

I frown.

“I’m a little worried, to be honest.”

I turn back to my computer and act busy. “You don’t need to worry, he’s in France with his artist.”

He stays silent, so silent that I look back.

His eyes hold mine, and I know that he knows just how broken I am.

My eyes well with tears. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not,” I cut him off; this is the most degrading moment of my life. My boyfriend’s brother coming to comfort me after he ran off with another woman.

I just want to be out of here, away from all these . . . snakes.

“I’m giving you my notice.”

His face falls. “Kate, no.”

“I can’t be here, Chris.”

His haunted eyes hold mine.

“I just . . .” Words fail me, because there are none. None that will make sense anyway. “Today is my last day, I’ll be out by close of business.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he whispers. “Elliot wouldn’t want you to leave.”

“Elliot is not here, is he?” I snap sharply. “I’m sorry.” I shrug. “I don’t mean to snap at you but . . .”

“It’s okay.” He watches me for a moment. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Get the hell out of London for a while.”

He leans his face on his hand as he watches me. “Mom’s upset.”

That makes two of us.

I nod, unable to push out words in fear of a full-on meltdown.

“Can I help you pack up?” he asks as he looks around my office.

I smile sadly, Christopher is so kind. “No, I’m okay.”

“Are you?” His eyes hold mine.

“Not really.” I smile through tears. “But . . . I will be.”

We stare at each other for a while. “Kate, for what it’s worth . . . I know he’ll—” He cuts himself off as if reconsidering what he was going to say.

“What?”

“He’ll regret this.”

“I know. I do.”

He frowns. “Do you?”

I puff air into my cheeks. “Actually, that’s not fair, I can’t say that. Elliot showed me what it was like to feel again. I’ve been numb since my parents died, so in a way”—I shrug—“I have to be grateful for that.”