by Monica James
She doesn’t.
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?” I question with a smirk. “What sort of noncommittal answer is that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t have anything to compare it to. I know my feelings for him were different, but I don’t know why that was. He was the only guy who challenged me, I suppose.”
“It sounds like you dated a bunch of duds,” I claim, and she covers her smile.
“I second that. I just haven’t found anyone who…who sets my world on fire. I want the crazy, chaotic love that leaves you breathless and impatient. I want the type of love which isn’t a man dominating a woman. I want a man who will walk by me in a partnership.”
“That’s a fair request. That’s what a relationship should be.” I try not to press too hard because she’s openly sharing, and I want her to continue.
“Is that what you had with Liz?”
Peering into the starless sky, I try to ignore my feelings, but I can’t. “In the beginning, yes. She was my everything. But things change. Clearly.”
Carrie seems to ponder over what I’ve just shared. “She’s a fucking idiot.”
I blink once, unsure if I’ve heard her correctly. But I have.
“Tonight, when you said you’ve never met anyone like me…” She wrings her hands together. “Well, I feel the same way about you. I feel like I’ve know you forever. I shouldn’t feel this way…”
“Why not?” I coax, attempting to suppress my happiness over her sharing this with me.
“I just shouldn’t,” she says on a rushed breath. I’m losing her, and when she goes to turn, I grip her forearm, trapping her.
“Why not, dove?” My voice is dangerously low. And Carrie senses it too.
“Don’t, Jayden,” she warns in a timid whisper.
“Don’t what?” I pull her toward me. She comes willingly.
“I can’t.”
“These half-arsed answers will not do. What. Can’t. You. Do?” I pause between each word, hovering close, needing her to know that the next few seconds and the many that will follow will be entirely based on her answer.
She wets her lips. “I can’t do this.”
Oh god, my rule of no kissing is completely obsolete because I want nothing more than to kiss the living shite out of her.
“Last night, when we were dancing, and today, I just…I am so—” But she doesn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she is moments away from fleeing. But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow that to happen.
My body reacts before my brain can comprehend what’s happening, and I close the distance between us, once and for all, slamming my lips to hers.
A whoosh of air escapes her because I’ve caught her unaware. It fills my lungs, and a strangled groan catches in the back of my throat.
Neither of us moves. We’re caught in a stalemate, and the pinnacle of no return is within reach.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be locked with another this way. But it could just be that with Carrie, everything feels brand new.
I brush my lips against hers from side to side, tasting, sampling, and relishing in the foreign intrusion. Our eyes are locked—hers frantic but trusting. As far as first kisses go, this is chaste and also a little unorthodox, but with Carrie, I don’t want to rush a thing.
With scotch on my breath and strawberries and cream on hers, I inhale, nudging her nose with mine. She whimpers, threading her fingers through my hair. We haven’t actually kissed as there is no tongue or open mouth connection, but this encounter is far more erotic than groping and going in for the kill. The chase is what excites me.
I press my palm to her cheek, our mouths still fused together as I lick the seam of her plump upper lip. A hoarse grunt escapes me when she tugs at the strands of my hair. She isn’t gentle, but who wants a docile lamb when I have this.
The energy thrumming through my veins animates me with a fierce need to consume this woman like she is my last meal. I want all of her—consequences be damned. Just as I tilt my head and open my mouth, ready to be lost in her, she severs our union, her lips trembling.
“Jayden, no, I can’t.”
And there’s that word again.
I blow out an exasperated breath because I don’t understand.
She stumbles backward, her eyes mirroring nothing but regret. “I can’t like you,” she finally explains although I am still no closer to knowing why.
Interlacing my hands atop my head, I take a minute to process what she just said. “Why not?”
It’s a simple question, but her answer is not.
“I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” She may as well have kicked me in the balls because she just boxed me in the friend zone.
“Why can’t we have both?” I ask, and she looks at me like I’m fucking insane. What she says next, though, has me questioning her soundness.
“Look at your ex-wife and look at me.” She sweeps down her body as though that’s supposed to make any bloody sense.
“I am looking,” I say, not understanding why she would bring Liz into this and ruin something enjoyable.
“What she did?” She sniffs. “You can never forgive her for.”
“Yes and…? What has that got to do with you?”
And there it is. I see it. Carrie has a secret. But what does that have to do with Liz?
“I don’t think you’re completely over her,” she says in a rushed tumble of words. But I know that’s not what she originally wanted to say. I actually recoil and acid rises. “I can’t get hurt again. Not by you. I can’t be your rebound.”
She’s spewing forth this poison, and I can’t keep up because none of this makes any sense. “I am completely over Liz. Trust me. I was over her the minute she cheated,” I stress, but it suddenly lacks ammunition. “And there is no comparison. None.” But she doesn’t listen because this doesn’t just have to do with Liz. This has to do with Carrie’s demons—all twenty-one of them.
“I’m embarrassed,” she confesses, averting her eyes. “I have a pattern. I always fall for the wrong guy, and I don’t want to do that with you. I like you too much. Take Donny, for example. I can’t do that anymore. I need to look for someone stable, sensible. My Mr. Right.”
I think she means Mr. Boring, but potato, potahto.
“We will only end up breaking each other’s hearts. You’re the first guy I actually like. So, trust me, I’m doing you a favor. We would never work.”
This entire time, I wondered what was wrong with the men of America. But now I know it’s Carrie with the problem. She’s scared of…love. Of being vulnerable. And because of that, she’s shut herself off from opening her heart fully. This pattern she says she follows—she finds flaws, so it’s easy to say goodbye. But even though I’m different, that doesn’t seem to make a difference.
No matter what I say or do—I will never be her Mr. Right. Look at how we met. I was going down on a complete stranger, only to go and fuck her sister in a limo, and then ogle her naked mom. I am history repeating, and she said on the plane, she’s quitting boys…well, more specifically, boys like me.
Her eyes well with tears because she can see she’s clearly wounded me. “I’m sick of being single. I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”
Unable to hold back my sarcastic snigger, I reply, “Being the bride is overrated.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your…”
But I thrust out my palm, not wanting her apologies. “Don’t make apologies for how you feel.” Her winded breaths emit white plumes of sadness. “Come on. Let’s go inside. You’re cold.”
“Really?” she asks, stunned. “You don’t want me to leave?”
“No, of course, I don’t. I’m not a complete bastard.” Low blow, but it’s the truth. I knew my depraved ways would eventually catch up to me, but I just never anticipated they’d come back this way. I have no one to blame but myself.
Carrie is looking for someone who doesn’t come with a sh
itload of baggage. Not to mention, someone who didn’t once shag her sister. But what she said about Liz—that upsets me the most. Carrie would never be my rebound. I am well over Liz. But my subconscious is shaking his head. He can fuck right off.
I suddenly need a drink.
Turning, I walk inside, the fire proving the perfect beacon to thaw out my chill. But I can’t help but feel there will always be a chill to my bones after Carrie just friend zoned me.
Pouring myself a glass of scotch, I drink in pensive silence, wondering how exactly I go about being Carrie’s friend. I want her—more than I’ve ever wanted anything—and now that I’ve had a small taste, I’ve been cut off.
“So we’re okay?” she asks from behind me.
“Yes.” Downing my scotch, I turn and extend my hand. Carrie looks down at it as if it’s some trick. But when she sees I’m serious, she shakes it lightly. “Friends?”
“Friends,” she confirms, but the quiver to her shake reveals we both know actions speak louder than words.
Running is my outlet.
I ran for miles every day after I caught a man balls deep in my wife. I ran when I couldn’t write a single word. So it’s no surprise I’ve run for the past two days like a man possessed.
After Carrie took a sledgehammer to my pride, we went to bed, but sleep has evaded me these past two days. What Carrie said may have been the truth, but it fucking sucked. No one wants to hear they’re nice but not nice enough for the person they want. And I do. I want Carrie, but she doesn’t want me. She wants someone stable, someone who hasn’t slept with her sister. Someone she can enter a room with without fearing a horde of angry scorned women lurks in the shadows, primed on getting revenge on the manwhore.
This shouldn’t hurt so much, but it does. And because of that, my flow of words is now a trickle.
Unable to run away from the mess my life has suddenly become, I amp up the speed on the treadmill, hoping to fall into an exhausted sleep. My cell chimes, and I know I can’t avoid it any longer. It’s been off for the past forty-eight hours, and it’s been blissful.
“Hello,” I breathlessly say as I turn the phone to speaker.
“Oh? You’re alive?”
“Don’t sound too excited about that fact. What do you want, Nick?”
“Why are you so out of breath? Did I catch you in a threesome?”
I choose to ignore him. “Again, I ask, what do you want?”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
I don’t bother correcting that I haven’t yet been to bed.
“If you’d bother to check your emails, and voicemail, and text messages, you’d know I spoke to Gerry.”
“And?” Just the mere mention of Gerry has me running faster.
“And Jesus Christ, Jayden, he’s driving a hard bargain. The terms are excellent. But they’re a new publishing house. It’s risky, especially because Axle is so respected among the industry. People won’t take too kindly to Gerry backstabbing Axle, and you’ll look like an ungrateful bastard if you change publishers.”
He relays everything I already knew. “So what happens now?” The line suddenly becomes filled with overhead announcements and chatter. “Where are you?” I ask, slowing down so I can strain my hearing.
“Enjoy your flight,” says a mysterious female.
“Nick?”
“See you soon, mate,” is his ambiguous reply.
“Hang on. What?” I switch off the machine and come to a standstill.
“What kind of agent would I be if I wasn’t there when you’re offered the biggest deal of your life?”
“We’ve already established you’re the world’s worst agent,” I tease, reaching for my water bottle.
“Please. You know you love me. I’ll see you tonight when I land. Gerry will be at your hotel around nine p.m. to talk business.”
I almost spit out my water. “Tonight?”
“Yes. I told you. If you actually checked your phone like a normal person, this wouldn’t come as a surprise. Make sure you have something to show Gerry. Au revoir.”
The line goes dead.
Bollocks.
The one time I decide to switch off from technology, this has to happen.
I have nothing to show Gerry. Well, nothing I would be proud to show him. Looking down at my watch, I see I have fourteen hours to cram thirty-three thousand words into coherent chapters.
With no time to waste, I take the elevator to my floor, wondering if I can pull off this miracle. Carrie is still asleep when I enter the room, so I quickly shower and dress and am ready to tackle this book and win.
As my laptop powers up, I take a sip of scotch, rocking back in my chair. I have words and notes throughout the pages and need to make sense of it to compile three decent chapters.
Who knew—I’m a complete masochist.
Groaning, I place my palms on my face. There is no way I can do this and be happy with the result. Especially since writer’s block has raised its ugly head again.
“Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I lie, unmasking my face. I ignore the stirring in my loins when Carrie stands before me in her pajamas.
“We would never work,” she said, which is the reason she’s been distant these past two days. We both have been. She’s taken off on her own, camera in hand, only to return late at night. I refuse to entertain the notion that she’s off with Mason or some other French beau.
When I’ve managed to catch half an hour of sleep, it’s been on the couch. The thought of sleeping beside her kicks me in the guts and leaves me with indigestion.
“So have you got plans for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, brow scrunched.
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” she clarifies when she reads my confusion.
“I have to get through today first,” I reply, opening my Word document, which resembles a dog’s breakfast.
“What’s happening today?”
“My agent is on his way to Paris. So is Gerry Williams.”
“Holy shit!” she declares, eyes wide.
“Indeed.”
She comprehends my disquiet instantly. “Does he want sample chapters?”
“Yes, he does. And all I have to show him is the ramblings of a madman.”
She covers her smile. “It can’t be that bad.”
Sweeping my hand toward my laptop, I say, “Knock yourself out.”
She takes me up on the offer and leans over me to read the gibberish on my screen. If I wasn’t so bloody anxious, I would take the time to bask in her scent.
“The sunlight was kindling across the horizon as she looked into the heavens, begging for a…burrito?” She cocks her head to the side while I slip further into despair.
Oh, god.
Running a hand through my damp hair, I blow out a despaired breath. “I was clearly hungry.”
“You were clearly something,” she adds, lips twitching.
“Oh, fuck it. I should just give up now. I’ve had my heyday. It’s time to face reality.” I attempt to stand, but Carrie places her hand on my shoulder. It’s the first contact we’ve had in two days, and my body grows lax, like an addict taking his first hit in days.
“Stop doubting yourself. That’s your problem. You’re a good writer, but if you don’t believe it, then how is anyone else supposed to?”
Well, put that simply, I suppose she’s right. But self-doubt is public enemy number one not only to writers but also to most people. What I’ve written doesn’t suck, but I’m terrified Gerry will look at it and ask if a five-year-old now writes under the pseudonym J.E. Sparrow.
“How do you know I’m a good writer?” I ask, watching her cheeks turn a cherry pink. She’s so busted.
“I’ve read your books,” she confesses. “They’re good, Jayden. I sobbed my eyes out when Christopher died. Did you really have to kill him?”
She’s referring to my eighth book—Your Lover’s Last Breath.
It exh
ilarates me to know she’s taken the time to read my work. “Yes. His death was meant to signify the characters coming full circle.”
“I know but have mercy on a girl’s heart. I’ve been a mess these past two days.” The moment she confesses her actions, she bites her top lip, but it’s too late. She just let slip that even though we weren’t particularly talking, she was thinking of me nonetheless.
I suddenly feel like fucking Hercules.
“Find that inspiration. Draw from it and write the best fucking sample chapters you have ever written.”
Her pep talk has the desired effect, and I drag myself from this slump and man the fuck up. I am a good writer. I thought I needed Liz as my muse, but in reality, that need was really just believing in myself.
“I will dedicate this book to you on the proviso it’s not a load of shite.”
She laughs. “It won’t be. I’m going to take a shower and then come back with some coffee and loads of food so you have no excuse to leave that desk.”
I appreciate the gesture. “And what do you plan on doing all day?”
She peers out the window, and when she sees it’s snowing a storm, she smiles. “Read. Someone gave me their book. I suppose I shouldn’t be rude, so I’ll read it.”
I have the urge to beat my chest in pride because there is no greater feeling than having a person you respect and admire read your work.
Unable to contain my smirk, I turn in my seat and face the screen, ready to make this manuscript my bitch. “I know how the story ends.”
“I bet you do.”
When continuous thumping pounds against my door, I know without a doubt my agent and best friend has arrived.
Carrie is getting ready in the bathroom as she thought it best to make herself scarce tonight. She didn’t want Gerry to see her—in case he feared she was Axle’s spy—and change his mind about the deal.
I tended to agree with her. Even though I wanted her by my side more than I cared to admit.
Today, she did what she said she would. She read my book. I couldn’t help but peer over every so often, wondering what she thought. Or what part she was up to. When tears welled in her eyes, I knew she’d reached halfway—the scene where the heroine’s husband returns from war when she thought he was dead.
