“When wasn’t it you?” he asked, hands settling on my hips.
“When I was pushing you away,” I admitted. “When I was picking fights. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Reel them in. Then push them away, keep them coming back.”
“Keep me coming back,” he corrected.
“Yes, you too.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you do it?”
“I get paid for it. I am good at it.”
“Why, Wasp?” he pressed, one hand going to my chin, gently forcing it up.
“Because some men get away with things they shouldn’t be allowed to. Because I can help some women get even.”
“And because you get to use your pretty against them,” he mused, daring me to object. “It didn’t escape me how you flipped whenever I called you beautiful. And now I am thinking that is because you were born pretty, right? Came out that way. Got prettier every year. Pretty enough that no one gave a shit if you had anything else to offer.”
‘They still don’t,” I said, shrugging, trying not to be bitter about it.
“I do,” he corrected. “Yeah, you’re gorgeous. I notice that. It’s a factor. You like how I look too, darling.”
“That’s fair,” I agreed.
“But that isn’t it. I didn’t keep you around because you were pretty. Pretty is a dime a dozen. I’d have gotten bored of pretty before we left Paris. The night we met, I was surrounded by pretty,” he reminded me. “I walked away from them for you. And kept coming back for more.”
“Yeah, because that’s how it works, Fenway. Catch and release. It’s a trick.”
“It wasn’t that I couldn’t have you.”
“That is all it could have been.”
“No. There was something about you. I could feel it the moment you walked in. Before I even saw you. The air changed when you walked in that bar. Maybe you think all men see is the pretty, but there is something else too. The way you carry yourself. That look in your eyes. Everyone projects a vibe. It’s why women can spot a creep from a room away. And maybe I saw all that pretty, Wasp. It’s hard to ignore. But that vibe was what pulled me away from my table. I knew there was something there. I wanted to get closer to it.”
“And then,” I prompted, needing more.
“And then you stopped with the bullshit long enough for me to get to know you a little. And the more I knew, the more I liked. This,” he said, running a fingertip down my jaw. “This is all wrapping paper. It’s pretty. It draws your eye. But what you really want is underneath all that. Christmas would be pretty boring if all you had were piles of pretty wrapping paper.”
“I like that analogy,” I decided, lips curving up slightly.
“Tell me it was more real than it was fake,” he demanded, vulnerability a breathtaking thing on his face.
“It was a lot more real than it was fake. It was almost all real. I had to leave because it was getting too real,” I told him. “I knew that if I stayed any longer, I was going to tell you. And that even if I did, there was no chance for us. Because you would never be able to trust me again.”
“Trust is a funny thing,” he mused. “Sometimes you think it’s been broken, when it’s just been tested.”
“How could you call this tested? I lied to you. I took money to lie to you. I met you and I had every intention from day one of hurting you. That’s not a test.”
“No, but maybe this is,” he suggested. “Getting it all out there.”
“There’s no way you could go on and believe me in the future.”
“No? I think that’s my place to decide, darling, not yours.”
“You couldn’t possibly want me now, knowing what I did.”
To that, a humorless smile pulled at his lips as he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, gently swiping at my face. “You have a good hand with the makeup, but it’s not waterproof. You look like you haven’t slept since you walked away from me,” he told me, touching the smudges I knew were under my eyes. “I think you’ve probably beat yourself up enough about what happened. You don’t need me to pile on.”
“It’s not about what I need. You have a right to pile on. I did something awful to you.”
“Did you, though?” he asked, tucking the makeup-smeared handkerchief away. “Falling for you wasn’t so bad,” he teased, lips quirking up. “One might be even able to argue that I quite enjoyed it.”
“Quite,” I scoffed, shaking my head.
“I do need to know one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s your real name?” he asked.
“Oh, anything but that,” I groaned, knocking my forehead into his shoulder.
“I’m afraid it’s a deal-breaker, darling. How bad could it be? Do you have some old lady’s name or something?”