Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  Daphne

  Lying on my back in the middle of my hotel bed, the ceiling tiles above me spin ever so slightly when I hear the barely audible beep of the lock on the door.

  He’s back.

  Stifling a monstrous groan, I roll to my side, away from the door, and curl my body around a pillow.

  “Daphne,” he says.

  Squeezing my eyes, I exhale and wait three beats. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not sure what exactly he’s sorry for or if it even matters at this point. After leaving him in the ballroom like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, I hurried back to the suite, changed into pajamas, and promptly did a little Googling in hopes that I could prove Cristiano wrong.

  The pilot’s name was Alistair Conrad and he was from Rhode Island. That was about all I gathered about him from our conversation earlier. That, and he worked for North Patriot Airlines. It didn’t take long to find his bio on their website, confirming that he was, in fact, a married man. A cursory Facebook search revealed his and his beautiful wife, Becca’s, profiles, which were chock full of family photos of the two of them with their three adorable little children.

  My stomach churns.

  “You were right,” I say, voice flat and slightly muffled by the pillowcase. “He was married.”

  I wait for Cristiano to say “I told you so,” but he never does.

  Maybe a tiny part of me hoped that Alistair was special. That our meeting on the elevator was kismet. That we were destined to stay up all night talking and sharing stories in between kisses. That the way he looked at me, like I was the most fascinating creature he’d ever stumbled upon in all of his worldly travels, was actually genuine.

  Now I know, he was just another shameless asshole trying to get laid.

  Rolling to face Cristiano, I open my eyes. He’s standing halfway between the door and the bed, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets and looking at me like he feels sorry for me. Maybe he picked up on something earlier. Maybe he heard the desperation in my frustrated rant. Maybe he smelled the loneliness on me.

  “I’ve never climbed Kilimanjaro,” he says, expression steady. “But I have slept under the Eiffel Tower, believe it or not.”

  I sit up.

  “I’ve also been skydiving in Switzerland,” he adds. “Although we didn’t jump from a plane, it was a helicopter. I thought I was going to die for a second because my first chute didn’t open at first. It was crazy. And intense. And I loved every heart-pounding second of it.”

  Looking at him in a new light, I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them.

  “I’ve sailed in a boat off the coast of Buenos Aires just to watch a pod of orcas swim at sunset,” he continues, “and I’ve pulled an all-nighter just to see the sun rise in Antigua, how it turns the water all pink and orange. I’ve shopped the souks of Marrakesh, which smell incredible, by the way. I’ve danced like an idiot in Ibiza after taking a handful of questionable pills I bought from some shirtless girl who called herself Tinkerbell.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  He steps closer yet still keeps a safe distance. “I don’t know. Guess I feel bad about ruining your night. But in all fairness, I think your night would’ve been ruined after waking up the next morning, hungover, and seeing that dent on his ring finger as you crawl out of his bed. Don’t you think?”

  I don’t answer because I know he’s right.

  I didn’t plan on sleeping with Alistair, but even the best laid plans often go awry.

  “I’ve been around the world, Daphne,” he says. “I know I come across as an obnoxious know-it-all, but I’ve done a lot of things. I’ve seen a lot of things. I’m good at reading people. I know when to call bullshit. And I refuse to sit back quietly when everything in my gut tells me someone’s about to be taken for a ride. But anyway, if you want stories, I’ve got stories. We can stay up all night if you want, and I’ll tell you some crazy shit. I won’t even try to sleep with you, how’s that?”

  Pulling my shoulders back, I lift my eyes to his. “Why do you care so much about what I’m doing, anyway? You don’t know me.”

  He exhales, running his hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know.” His lips pull into a careful smirk that lights his face. “How’s that for ironic? The know-it-all has no fucking clue.”

  I fling myself up from the bed and pad across the carpet, heading toward the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” he calls as I pass him. We nearly brush shoulders.

  “I’m going to soak in that tub for the next hour,” I say, “and when this year is finally over, I’ll emerge, smelling like roses, literally, and I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “So that’s it?” He turns to face me as I linger in the bathroom doorway. “You’re just going to call it a night? Ring in the new year alone?”

  Shrugging, I nod. “Yep.”

  “Surely we can salvage this.”

  Lifting a brow and pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Doubtful. I pretty much just want to forget tonight ever happened.”

  Stepping inside the bathroom, I grip the edge of the door and prepare to close it, which feels strongly like a metaphor for this moment.

  For this past year, really.

  “Wait,” he calls before I get the chance.

  But I don’t.

  My mood is ruined.

  This night is ruined.

  I just want to drown myself in a million bubbles and a soapy broth of self-pity. Maybe do some reflecting on this last year or so and all the wrong turns I’ve taken. When I’m through with my introspections, I’ll watch them circle the drain and emerge a brand new woman.

  Hopefully.

  Locking the door behind me, I bid so long to this past year and run myself the hottest bath I can stand.

  Wrapped in a fluffy robe, my skin red and steamed, I run my palm along the fogged up bathroom mirror and give myself a good, hard look.

  I’m not sure what time it is or if the people several floors below have already finished their midnight countdown, but I figure it might not be too late to make a new year’s resolution.

  I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I’m sick of getting my hopes up. I’m tired of having my heart broken.

  But I can’t think of a single resolution that would prevent any of those things from happening.

  Drawing in a long, slow breath, I try and focus on the positives . . . the things I can control . . . the things I want out of life.

  And then it hits me.

  Completely out of nowhere.

  The thought feels wildly surprising yet completely organic.

  I know what my resolution is going to be . . .

  This year, I want to experience more priceless moments. The kind money can’t buy. The kind I can’t assign a dollar amount to or order on the Internet with the click of a button.

  This year, I want to revel in those immeasurably valuable moments that could never be worthy of a price tag.

  I want adventure.

  I want to make memories.

  I want experiences.

  I want to be so busy living that I forget about everything else.

  Feeling resolute, I scrape my spirit off the floor and pull in a cleansing breath. I force myself to smile in the mirror, which feels awkward but somehow lifts my mood just enough that I think I can emerge from the bathroom and not bite Cristiano’s head off when he opens that smart mouth of his.

  Cinching my robe belt, I reach for the doorknob and yank the door open, finding myself face to face with my temporary roommate.

  My heart leaps, startled, climbing in my chest and pounding like it wants out. The way he looks at me sucks all the air from my lungs, and before I have a chance to fully comprehend what’s happening, his hands are circling my waist and his mouth is moving to mine. Each step he takes moves us, in tandem, until my back is pressed against the bathroom door and there’s nowhere else to go.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight,” he
says, his voice like a whisper only meant for me.

  “Cristiano.”

  His right hand cups the underside of my jaw, angling my mouth upward.

  “Seven . . . six . . .” he continues.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Five . . . four . . . three,” he sighs, his mouth coming closer. His lips brush against mine, and I inhale a hint of mint and Scotch on his breath. “Two . . . one.”

  His mouth comes down on mine, his fingers lacing through the damp hair at the nape of my neck. He doesn’t slip me the tongue. He doesn’t make this dirty or raw or animal. He doesn’t kiss me in a way that makes me feel threatened or unsafe. For all intents and purposes, considering what this is, he’s a perfect gentleman.

  My eyes close and my thoughts are muted.

  I want to touch him.

  I want to reach for him.

  But I’m not sure if that would be appropriate. I have no idea why he’s kissing me or what his intentions are, and I’m not sure why I’m standing here letting him do this, my body all but offering itself up to him on a quaking, quivering silver platter.

  But we’re kissing.

  He’s kissing me.

  And it feels so good to be kissed that I could cry.

  I could weep like a baby.

  Nobody’s ever kissed me this way; so gentle, so sweet. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m breakable. Like I’m precious.

  All my life, I’ve known how people see me.

  They see this spitfire personality with opinions blasting from her lips every five seconds. They see someone who regularly jet sets across the globe like she’s some kind of fearless. They see someone who’s had her heart smashed dozens of times and has the audacity to try, again and again, foolishly, to fall in love.

  But what they don’t see is how truly delicate my heart is. They don’t see how heavy it is when I think about how much love it has to give. They don’t see how fast it beats when I lock eyes with a man who could potentially hold my entire future in the palm of his hand.

  I want to love.

  And I want to be loved.

  And I want someone who kisses me like this, so soft and slow it makes me forget how to breathe.

  He pulls his mouth from mine a moment later, our eyes meeting in a veil of lust-struck confusion, at least on my end.

  His lips, subtly pink from kissing me, pull up at the sides just enough. “Happy fucking New Year.”

  5

  Cristiano

  Holy shit.

  Did I just fucking kiss her?

  My mouth pulses in time with my pounding heart.

  Daphne stares up at me, all wide-eyed and bewildered, her full lips swollen from my kiss.

  I’d been sitting on the sofa a minute ago when I realized it was almost midnight. All I meant to do was rap on the bathroom door and tell her it was almost the new year. Despite the fact that she damn near bit my head off earlier, I didn’t think it was right to let her miss it.

  But then she opened the door, enveloped in a cloud of steam, her light blonde hair stuck to her soft skin and little hints of her tan, bare flesh playing off the white robe that covered her wet body. I saw her, and I just lost all control.

  I had to kiss her.

  My hands finally leave her trembling body, and I step away. I think about apologizing and then immediately talk myself out of it because I’m not sorry. I kissed her, and I won’t apologize for it because it was fucking fantastic. Her lips were pillow soft and tasted like champagne, and when the scent of roses left her damp skin, it was the perfect storm.

  Neither of us stood a chance.

  She lifts her fingertips to her mouth, gently touching the spot I’d claimed moments before. I expect her to ask why I kissed her. I almost expect her to slap me across the face. But she just stands there, stunned and staring.

  I have to own this now.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Daphne,” I say in all sincerity. “And it’s midnight on New Year’s Eve. A woman like you should be kissed like that on a night like this.”

  Despite the fact that I sound like some cheesy male lead in a romance movie right now, I mean it. I mean every word of it. Pulling in a deep breath, I ready myself with a disclaimer. I want to tell her this doesn’t mean anything, that I’m not trying to get laid. That I’m not like that.

  But when her eyes brim with tears and a single track rolls down her cheek, I silence myself.

  Fuck.

  She brushes past me, wiping her eyes on the back of her left hand.

  “I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry.” I go to her because I can’t stand back here and witness her falling apart at the seams because of something I did. Out of instinct, I place my hand on the small of her back because it doesn’t occur to me that touching her after I just kissed her like that, without permission, might not be the greatest idea. “Daphne, talk to me.”

  She says nothing as her shoulders heave and fall with silent tears. Her hands cover her face now.

  “Daphne,” I say, almost tempted to spin her around to face me. “I’ll stay somewhere else tonight. I’ll sleep on a park bench if you want. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Turning, our gazes meet. Her hands fall to her sides and her cheeks are wet with tears. “That was really nice of you.”

  Trying not to laugh because I’m not quite understanding, I ask, “What?”

  She faces me completely, gazing up and drying her cheeks on the sleeves of her robe. “The way you kissed me. It was nice. Nobody’s ever kissed me like that before.”

  Releasing a held breath, I relax a little. “Oh, yeah?”

  “I know it didn’t mean anything,” she says, waving her hand. “I . . . I guess it just stirred something in me. It unraveled me.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I play it safe and lend her an ear and one hundred percent of my attention. I try not to let my mind wander, but I can’t help but assume she’s probably one of those girls who cries after sex.

  Never would’ve pegged her as one of those. She seems so . . . strong-willed? Stubborn? Mouthy?

  “God, I feel like an idiot right now. I’m so embarrassed. Really. I am.” She laughs through misty eyes. “You have every right to think I’m certifiably insane after today. I think you’ve seen just about every side of me all in the span of about ten hours.”

  “Lucky me.” I flash a half-smirk that lets her know I don’t mind.

  She laughs.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say. “Complex maybe. But not crazy.”

  Daphne bites her lip as she looks up at me. “Can we pretend like this didn’t happen?”

  “What? Pretend I didn’t kiss you or pretend you didn’t cry?”

  She glances down, pushing a breath through her nostrils. “Both.”

  Smoothing my hand along my jaw, I chuff. “If that’s what you want.”

  She plops onto the edge of the bed, her hands falling loosely in her lap. Exhaling, she says, “That was, easily, the best kiss I’ve ever had in my life. And now, every time I look back on this moment, I’m going to cringe.”

  I take a seat next to her.

  “Story of my life,” she says, shaking her head. “All the good moments somehow become cringe-worthy.”

  “That’s a sign that you’re doing it right,” I say.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Leaning back on my elbows, I say, “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know if that means you’re doing it right. It just sounded good in my head.”

  Daphne laughs, and I’m relieved. Her smile lights up her whole face, like it’s almost too big, and her eyes crinkle in the corners.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” she says. Her smile fades gradually, and she turns to me. “Have you really been to all those places and seen all those things?”

  I nod. “I have.”

  She rolls to her side, cupping her hand under her chin, and studies me with furrowed brows. “You’re adventurous.”

  “Are you asking or
stating?”

  “Observing.”

  “What about you? You do any traveling?” I ask.

  She nods. “I lived in Paris for a year. We’d take weekend trips sometimes. Mostly places like London, Dublin, Brussels. Sometimes Amsterdam. I always wanted to veer off the beaten path. I wanted to seek adventure and try everything there was to try. But the guy I was with at the time, he only wanted to go to art museums and clubs where his name was permanently etched on VIP lists.”

  “Was he famous, this guy?”

  Daphne rolls her eyes. “In the international art scene, yes. I’m sure he’s nobody you’ve ever heard of.”

  “Try me.”

  “Pierre DuBois. He’s a painter. An abstract expressionist. And a womanizer.” She exhales. “But anyway.”

  “Sounds like a tool.”

  Daphne laughs. “He was a tool. A total tool. Just wish I’d have known that at the time. I thought he was pretty amazing for a while. He crushed me.”

  Her smile fades, and her eyes grow despondent. She’s looking at me, but she’s not.

  “He was my first love,” she says in a way that almost makes my heart break. Her voice cracks and then she chuckles one time. “I was twenty-three, and I didn’t know much about the real world, but I was certain I knew what love felt like and I would’ve sworn on my life that he truly loved me.”

  “First loves do that to you,” I say. “They rip your heart out and you never really get it back. You might get bits and pieces. But it’s never intact and it’s never the whole thing.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Her lips twist in the corners. “A year ago, I thought I was in love with this football player. His friend was dating my sister, that’s how we met. And we just . . . clicked. We stayed up all night talking once, and I fell hard and fast and without any kind of warning. It wasn’t gradual. It just . . . happened.” Daphne glances at the comforter beneath her and then reaches to pick at a thread. “But the more I got to know him, the more we talked about our pasts and poured our hearts out, the more I realized he was still in love with his ex. She was his first love, and he never really got over her. So I let him go.”

  “Psh.” I scoff. “Sometimes people need time. Maybe you were going to be the one to help him get over her?”