Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  “Doubtful.”

  “Now you’ll never know,” I say. “You pushed him away before you had the chance to see.”

  “I pushed him away because I saw the train wreck about to unfold in the distance,” she defends herself. “It was inevitable, and it was pointless to stick around waiting for my heart to break.”

  “So what happened when you told him he was still in love with his ex?”

  She’s quiet for a moment, inhaling softly. “He denied it at first. And I thought maybe I was wrong. But the next day we met up and he told me he’d stayed up all night thinking about all the things I said. And he told me I was right. He still loved her.”

  Pushing a hard breath past my lips, I wince when I see the hurt reliving in her baby blues. I can only hope talking about this is somewhat cathartic for her because she’s practically radiating pain.

  “They got back together,” she continues. “At least for a while. I heard they broke up again.”

  “You should reach out to him.”

  Her face scrunches and she shakes her head hard. “No, no. He tries to get a hold of me sometimes, but I let his calls go to voicemail. I don’t know what he wants, and I don’t know what I’d say to him.”

  “Do you still miss him?”

  Her eyes flick into mine. “Like crazy sometimes. Other times, I refuse to let myself think about him because what’s the point? What good does it do me to dwell in the past?”

  “Did you love him?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I thought I did. I also thought I loved Pierre. I don’t think I know what love is anymore.”

  “Fool’s love,” I say. “There’s love and then there’s fool’s love, kind of like how there’s gold and then there’s fool’s gold. Sometimes it looks like love and it acts like love and it feels like love, but it’s just a cheap imitation.”

  “So how do you tell the difference?”

  Rolling on my side, I face her, our eyes locking. “I don’t think there’s always a way to tell. At least not at first. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. You have to wait it out. The real love always lasts. The fool’s love kind of . . . falls apart at the seams the second shit gets real.”

  “I guess that makes sense.”

  “It’s okay not to have all the answers, Daphne,” I say. “Sometimes you just have to live your life and not worry about if and when and how you’re going to get hurt next.”

  Her mouth pulls up in one corner. “Easy for you to say. I bet you’ve never had your heart broken before.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask me to tell her about the girl who obliterated my heart years ago. I’m not in the mood to talk about her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Mm hm. Right.”

  Curling the corner of my mouth, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You look like a heartbreaker,” she says. “That’s what that means.”

  “And what does a heartbreaker look like, exactly?”

  “A heartbreaker walks with confidence, knows how to command a room, and has a stare that makes a girl go weak in the knees,” she says. “He’s handsome. Sometimes too handsome. And he knows it. He’s used to getting what he wants, and God save the woman he sets his sights on because she won’t stand a chance.”

  Trying to hide the fact that she just flattered the hell out of me, I shrug. “Yeah, well, I don’t know about all of that.”

  Daphne sits up, taking in a long breath and letting it go. Her body relaxes and she gently punches my shoulder.

  “Thanks,” she says. “Thanks for putting up with my crazy mood swings today. And thanks for letting me vent. It was nice to take my mind off the fact that I freaking cried after you kissed me.”

  She buries her face in her hand as if she’s ashamed, but she’s slightly laughing. When she comes up for air, our eyes meet, and without warning, my stomach knots and my mouth goes dry. Focused on her plump, rosy lips, it’s all I can do not to crush them with another kiss.

  I’ve been around the world.

  I’ve kissed a lot of girls in a lot of countries.

  Maybe I’ve broken a few hearts along the way.

  I’ve done a lot of things.

  I’ve jumped from helicopters. I’ve snuck into ancient pyramids after hours. I dove from cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean.

  But something tells me Daphne Rosewood is about to become my greatest adventure yet.

  “Daphne,” I say, my breath low in my throat.

  Angling herself to face me, her expression fades. “Yes?”

  I sit up, inching closer to her side, and swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m going to kiss you again. And I don’t want you to cry this time. I want you to feel it. I want you to enjoy it. Can you do that?”

  Her crystal eyes widen and she nods slowly, staring at me through long, curled lashes.

  My hand lifts, enveloping the side of her face as our mouths move closer. There’s an endless second that lingers between us, causing my heart to stop until our lips brush together. My fingers lace through the hair at the nape of her neck, guiding her mouth against mine.

  I kiss her soft at first. Slow. And then I gently take her lower lip between my teeth, releasing it before soothing the sting with another sweet kiss. Daphne reaches for me, the tips of her fingers grazing the flesh along my jaw, and the bed shifts as she scoots closer.

  She moans between kisses. It’s subtle. Barely audible. And I’m not sure she knows she’s doing it. But I fucking love it. I don’t want her to stop.

  Kissing her harder now, she moans into my mouth a little louder this time, and when she exhales, her breath is warm on my face and she pulls herself away to catch her breath.

  “God, I could let you kiss me like this all night,” she breathes, lips warm and swollen.

  My mouth crashes onto hers, stealing another kiss, and I feel her lips curve as she smiles. There’s a hard ball in the pit of my stomach, only it feels empty, and the more I kiss Daphne, the heavier it feels.

  It grounds me. It weighs me down. It fills me up.

  It tingles, as if it’s coming to life. It feels just as real as the heart galloping in my chest.

  I don’t know this woman, but I love kissing her.

  I love the way she needs me to kiss her.

  Daphne’s lips part, and our tongues meet in a beautiful, inevitable hesitation. Each quiver of her breath, each desperate, needy sigh, makes me want more of her . . . makes me want all of her.

  If she were any other girl, I might have my way with her and not feel a thing. I’d feel every inch of her, inside and out, and my mouth would travel her body, reveling in her sweet taste and the way she responds to my touch. But there’s something different about this one. She’s fragile and broken and vulnerable, and at the same time she’s strong and hopeful. She’s an enigma, and she’s not like the rest.

  I’ll kiss her tonight.

  I’ll kiss her all night.

  But I won’t break her because she deserves better.

  I hardly know her, and already I know she deserves better than me.

  6

  Daphne

  A sliver of sunlight peeks through the break in the hotel room curtains, but the rest of the room is so dark I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. My lips tingle, like they’re slightly numb, and I reach for them, sliding my fingertips along my swollen pout.

  He kissed me. He kissed me all night.

  The bed shifts, and my attention jerks to my left.

  Oh, god.

  He’s in bed with me.

  Squeezing my legs together and running my hand down my front, I softly exhale when I find myself still fully clothed in last night’s pajama-and-robe ensemble.

  Pressing my head into my pillow, I stare at the ceiling and steady my breathing. Bits and pieces of the night before come back to me.

  He saved me from hooking up with a married pilot.

  I yelled at him.

  I took a bath.

  He ki
ssed me.

  I cried.

  He kissed me some more.

  We fell asleep in bed together.

  I’m not sure this is the kind of thing I had in mind when I made my priceless moments resolution, but this is definitely not the kind of experience money can buy, so I guess it counts.

  Glancing his way, my eyes trace the shadowed outline of his face. He wears a peaceful expression, his breath steady as he exhales.

  I watch him sleep, admiring his chiseled features and calming aura, when out of nowhere waves of humiliation wash over me. In the span of less than twenty-four hours, I showed this complete stranger every last one of my true colors, and I’m quite certain that any minute now, he’s going to wake up and bask in the very same awkwardness that’s consuming me in this moment.

  Reaching toward the nightstand, I grip the alarm clock and turn it to face me. It’s a quarter after seven. There’s a rental car company down the street that opens at seven-thirty. Gently pulling the covers off my legs, I slide out of the bed, one foot at a time, and tiptoe to the bathroom to wash up, stopping to grab some clothes from my suitcase on the way.

  I take my phone with me so I can call the company the second they open. With all these stranded travelers, I can imagine business is booming, and I don’t want to be stuck without a way home.

  Staring at my reflection, I chuckle to myself when I see how swollen my lips are. My jaw hurts too. Cristiano kissed me so good and so hard last night. There were times my self-control wavered, and my mind teetered while I was on the verge of ripping off my clothes, climbing on top of him, and commanding him to do with me what he pleased because any man who can kiss like that is probably amazing at all those other things too.

  But I had the good sense to stop myself because there’s a difference between priceless and reckless.

  I never went there.

  And he never tried.

  Cristiano was the perfect gentleman, and oddly enough, it wound up being the perfect way to ring in the new year, all things considered.

  Slipping into a pair of worn-in jeans and a vintage Dior t-shirt I bought from a Paris flea market a couple years ago, I give myself a once-over in the mirror and finger comb my hair into a messy top knot.

  The second the clock hits seven-thirty, I’m making my phone call, packing my bags, and setting my sights on the eastern horizon. It’s going to be me and several thousand miles of open road, and I’m kind of excited.

  I take a seat on the edge of the bathtub, phone in hand, and dial the rental company a few minutes later.

  The line is busy.

  Hanging up, I immediately try again.

  And again.

  And yet again.

  For fifteen minutes straight, I try them, and for fifteen minutes straight, the line is busy.

  A sick swirl in the depths of my belly threatens to give me a minor panic attack. I can’t stay here another day. I can’t hang out and do nothing. All I want is to leave this hotel, avoid any awkward exchanges with Cristiano, and forge ahead on my journey.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I try again.

  This time it rings.

  With my heart beating in my ears and my grip tight around my phone case, I hold my breath until someone answers.

  “Goodman Rental Services. This is Tanya. How may I help you?” the voice of an angel asks.

  “Yes,” I say, releasing the breath I’d held far too long. “I’d like to rent a car as soon as possible.”

  She’s quiet, but I’m hopeful. The clicking of keyboard keys in the background and the endless seconds that tick by threaten to steal my optimism.

  “Okay,” she says, her voice void of any chipper qualities. “We have two cars left.”

  “Oh, thank god.”

  “A fifteen passenger van,” she says. “And an economy car.”

  “I’ll take the economy car. Do you deliver?”

  “We do.”

  “How soon could you have it here? I’m at the Blue Star Hotel on Sierra Vista Parkway.”

  Her end of the phone is muffled briefly, like she’s talking to someone else, and when she returns, she says, “Our morning is full. We could have it to you by one p.m. if that would work?”

  “You’re right up the road from my hotel, right?” I ask. “I could just walk there.”

  “No, sweetheart,” she says, “this is the Chase Boulevard location. The Sierra Vista location closed last year. We’re about ten miles from you.”

  My heart sinks, but my determination is unbreakable. “Is there any way to get it sooner?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll pay extra.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I’m so sorry.”

  “My sister is about to have a baby,” I say, injecting some genuine desperation into my tone, “and I’m trying to get home. Every hour counts.”

  Part of me thinks I should hang up with Tanya, call another rental agency, and try to secure a different car, but if Goodman only had two cars left in their fleet and there are hundreds if not thousands of stranded travelers in Seaview, I might be shooting myself in the foot by letting this one go.

  Tanya sighs, her end of the line keeping silent for far too long.

  “I have a soft spot for babies,” she says, her voice muted and muffled like she’s talking from the corner of her mouth. “Just had a baby girl eight weeks ago.”

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “It’s your sister, you say?”

  “Yes. My twin sister.”

  Tanya clicks her keyboard in the background. “All right. I moved some things around. Your car should be arriving by eight fifteen. It’s a navy blue Toyota.”

  “Thank you!” It’s all I can do to keep from squealing, and if I could reach through the phone and hug her, I would.

  “All right, now I just need your credit card,” she says.

  I rattle off the numbers and Tanya responds shortly after with a confirmation number. I’ll be paying a premium for this rental since it’s a one-way trip and I won’t be returning it to this agency, but I can deal with that. By the time I hang up, it’s almost eight, and my car will be delivered in fifteen minutes.

  Creeping out of the bathroom, I try to re-pack my bag as quietly as possible. Cristiano’s buried under a mountain of covers now, breathing hard and rolling from his left side to his right.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot him reach his hand toward the empty side of the bed, and I watch as his brows meet and his face winces.

  Pulling the zipper slowly around my suitcase, I hoist it off the luggage rack and onto the carpet just as he sits up.

  “Daphne?” He reaches for the lamp above the nightstand and clicks it on. “Where are you going?”

  His hair is sticking up on the side, but it’s equal parts sexy and adorable. My gaze lingers on his lips a second too long, and in that second, I can almost remember what it felt like to kiss him. It’s like he’s kissing me all over again, and it’s just as delicious as it was the night before. There’s a swirling, tickling sensation in the center of my belly, but I force it away. It has no business being there.

  “My car is being delivered. I have to head downstairs. Just check out by eleven, okay?” I force a smile and grip the handle of my luggage.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He flings the covers off and rises, hands resting on his hips and lips pursed. “You’re serious about this road trip thing?”

  I nod. “Of course. I’m going home. I told you, I can’t sit around and wait all week for a flight. I’ll be home in three days.”

  “No,” he says, stepping toward me. He’s standing in front of me now, shirtless and in a pair of pajama pants. He must have changed sometime after I fell asleep last night. “I can’t let you do this.”

  Laughing at his audacity, I say, “Yeah, well, I can’t let you stop me.”

  He reaches for me, his hand landing on my arm and his fist curling around my flesh. I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of being anchored, so I j
erk myself away.

  “I know you want to get home,” he says, “but I’m telling you, this is not the solution.”

  “And I’m telling you, I’m going to be home in three days.”

  He shakes his head, his lips pressing flat. “You can’t drive thirteen, fourteen, fifteen hours a day for three straight days.”

  “Says who? Says you?” I pull my bag toward the door and he follows, arms crossed.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Stopping, I turn to face him. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am. I’m coming with you because you can’t do this alone. It’s not safe. You could fall asleep and cause an accident. You could get carjacked. You could break down on the side of the road on a deserted highway.”

  My amusement fades as I watch him pulling clothes from his bag. A shirt falls out and he stuffs it back in.

  He’s serious about this.

  I check the time on my phone. “I’m doing this. And my car’s almost here, so . . .”

  “Wait,” he says. “I’m almost done.”

  Cristiano tucks a wad of clothes under his arm and heads back to the bathroom, only closing the door halfway. When he emerges a minute later, he’s dressed in pale jeans and a navy polo and his hair is wet and neatly combed. He shoves the rest of his things into his suitcase and makes his way toward the door.

  “You’re insane,” I tell him. “You’re not even complex, you’re certifiably insane.”

  He takes my bag and we head to the elevator.

  I can’t believe this is happening. Surely he’ll change his mind once he wakes up a bit more and comes to his senses.

  As soon as we’re deposited on the main floor, I pull him aside. Standing next to a potted palm, I look him square in the eyes and simply state, “You can’t come with me.”

  Balking, he takes a step back. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  His brows meet, forming a line between them. “I don’t care what you want. You’re clearly not thinking straight. It’s a matter of safety.”

  I shake my head, placing my hand on his chest. “I really don’t want you to come. This isn’t a joke. Or a game. I’m not kidding. I don’t want you to come with me.”