Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(95)
Leaving her. Again.
The pinnacle of vulnerability would be to show how much she hurt. But she couldn’t keep from reacting. Couldn’t keep the words from coming.
“How can you make plans to go back after… after…”
She couldn’t say it.
Eyes on the ceiling, he spoke in an even tone. “Never planned on staying.”
“But… you said”—that you loved me—“so many things.”
Cold blue eyes flicked to her.
“Doesn’t mean I’m staying, Scampi.”
And there it was. The hairline crack in her heart—the crack Donny Pate had put there—splintered. He’d fractured her tender heart seven years ago; now he obliterated it.
Doesn’t mean I’m staying.
But that’s exactly what it should mean. In her mind, anyway. Maybe that’s where this entire affair had occurred. In her mind. Donovan never made her any promises. And she never asked for any. She’d fallen into his arms again, but this time, her eyes were open. He took what he wanted and left her behind seven years ago. She knew him, knew what to expect.
So why are you upset?
Because she started to believe he changed. Believed she changed him. Against her better judgment, she’d allowed herself to hope. Worse, she allowed herself to love him. And love couldn’t be undone.
Finally, Donovan turned his head and looked at her. “You gonna make me sleep alone tonight?”
She should. She could. She could gather the pieces of her heart, what was left of her self-respect, get dressed, and leave. Not trusting her answer, she said nothing.
The palm of his hand brushed her thigh, stroked up her ribs, and closed around her back.
“Don’t wanna sleep alone tonight, Scampi.”
She found herself folding over him, folding, period. Her weakness where he was concerned alive and well. But she didn’t have to stay weak.
Faith had pointed out Sofie held the power in this relationship. He may be leaving. But she had the power to let him. She wasn’t going to squander their last night together arguing when he would end up leaving anyway.
Untrustworthy emotions swirled in her chest. She sealed them up tight. Oh, she’d feel them later. They’d escape and choke the very air in her lungs. But for now she’d do her best to feel nothing.
She lay next to him, rested her palm on his chest, and her face on his shoulder. One strong, tattooed arm wrapped around her body and pulled her close. Lying there against his chest, listening to his heart beat, listening to his breaths slow, she felt plenty.
Each breath she took scratched her dry throat like shards of glass.
A soft kiss landed on her forehead.
“ ’Night, Scampi.”
Her mind completely blank of all thoughts, she closed her eyes. Finally, with her leg draped over his thigh, and her arm over his stomach, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Work.
Getting back to work was what mattered most. Donovan’s first job when he returned to the Hamptons was for Mrs. Baron: super wealthy, peroxide-blond-haired fortysomething with a body she’d purchased with her millions and rocked publicly without shame.
As if to prove his point, Alyssa strutted out to her patio, long white robe open, tiny black bikini on display, like a model on a catwalk.
“Looking good, Donovan.” She offered a glass of iced tea. “Your drink.”
“Thanks.” He slipped his gloves off and accepted the iced tea. It was boiling-lava hot out here, way into the nineties, and he was sweating buckets. He took the glass and threw back a long swallow, coughing when his throat began to burn. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and slid an irritated glance at Alyssa. “What the hell?”
The corner of her red lips quirked. She shrugged.
“I added tequila, a little bit of vodka, some rum. I can’t remember exactly how to make a Long Island Iced Tea, but that should suffice.”
“A bottle of water next time.” He thrust the glass into her hands.
She accepted with an exaggerated pout. “You certainly play hard to get. Maggie told me you did.”
Maggie? She must be talking about Margaret Brown, whose fireplace he’d repaired a few months back. Back before he made the apocalyptic mistake of returning to Evergreen Cove.
Alyssa stepped closer, ran a pink fingernail down his T-shirt, and Donovan couldn’t dredge up any feelings save for irritation. He took a step away from her.
“Water, Alyssa. I don’t screw my clients. If I did”—may as well make himself perfectly clear—“I wouldn’t screw the married, desperate ones.”
“Are you trying to get fired, Mr. Pate?” One prim brow arched in challenge as she fought to hold her composure.
With a shrug, he gestured to the half-completed fireplace on her patio. “You know someone else who can finish this?”
Alyssa shut her mouth with the snap of her pearly teeth.
She didn’t. He’d designed the fireplace custom to fit on her oddly shaped patio and face the sunset. He’d love to see another contractor match the seams. The mortars were mixed sixty/forty dove gray and Russian brown. He’d done a few others in similar fashion—the entire piece echoed his signature style. His commercial style, anyway. This was what people in the Hamptons wanted. Perfection.