Wicked Heart (Starcrossed #3)(8)

“Elissa, I’m sorry. That day . . . the last time I saw you. I hurt you, and I hate that.”

I can’t cope with him being so close, but I clench my jaw and force myself to sound calmer than I feel. “There were faults on both sides. We weren’t even in a relationship.”

“We both know that’s not true. What we shared—”

“Was a long time ago. We were young and stupid. Everything seems epic at that age, and we got carried away. I knew it at the time, and I know it now. I’m over it.”

His eyes bore into me. “It?”

I straighten my spine. “You.” He blinks a few times, and I ignore his conflicted expression. “Now you’re engaged to one of the most beautiful women in the world, and I . . .” Come on, Elissa, say it. Even if you don’t mean it. “I couldn’t be happier for you.”

If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be poking his eye out right about now. Well, okay, I’m too short for the eye, but his chest would be getting a bruising. “No matter how it happened, I’m glad you two found each other. It’s obvious you love her.” I risk looking at his face. “Right?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Do I seriously expect him to say “no” and take me in his arms? As usual, my unrealistic romantic expectations are way off.

“Yes, I love her,” he says quietly. “I’m lucky to be marrying my best friend. Not everyone gets that chance.”

A knot of tension coils in my stomach. I really wasn’t prepared for how much those words would hurt.

“And what about you?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Are you . . . with anyone?”

It sounds like he’s asking if I have a terminal illness. I guess if stubborn singleness were a disease, I could be said to have a chronic case.

What do I tell him? That since our time together, I never go out with a man for more than a couple of weeks? In general, men disappoint me. Yet another thing for which I blame Liam Quinn.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” I say. Several someones, really. None worth mentioning.

His stare is intense. Like he’s trying to see straight into my soul. “Does he treat you well?”

I almost cave and tell him the truth, but my pride takes over my mouth. “Like a queen.”

The tension in him gives way to something else. Relief, perhaps. “Good. You deserve happiness. You deserve . . . everything.” When he looks back at me, there’s such raw longing there that all the air in the room disappears, and for the first time in my life, I feel claustrophobic. I lean back against the wall, and hope he can’t tell.

“Was there anything else before you go, Mr. Quinn?”

“Yes. Stop calling me Mr. Quinn. Everyone else can call me whatever the hell they like, but not you. Please, Elissa.”

“Okay, Mr. Qu—” I take a breath. “Sorry. Liam.”

The second I say his name, something shifts in the air. My skin prickles and his entire posture changes. In that moment, he’s not a movie star, and I’m not his stage manager. We’re the same two desperately connected people who fell down a rabbit hole years earlier and climbed out forever changed.

He takes a step forward, and for a moment I think he’s going to touch me. But after looming over me for several long seconds, he turns on his heel, opens the door, and strides down the corridor.

When he’s out of sight, I collapse into my chair and drop my head onto the desk.

So, yeah.

That went well.





THREE


PAST TENSE


If sitting on the couch eating cheese were a sport, right now I’d be the Olympic champion.

Our first day of rehearsals has left me drained. The thought of enduring another few months of controlling my reaction to Liam has led me to being pantsless in my favorite nightshirt as I inhale a wedge of Jarlsberg.

“Wine?” Josh calls from the kitchen.

“If you have to ask that question after the day we’ve just had, then we’re no longer friends.”

I look up to see him in the doorway holding a wineglass so big, it could be seen from space. I suspect it’s holding an entire bottle of wine.

“I was being polite, loser. I already knew the answer.” He has a six-pack of beer in his other hand. “When we’ve finished this lot, I vote we move on to the bourbon.” He passes me my wine, and then flops next to me as he uncaps a beer. He takes a long drink before letting out the world’s most resonant burp.

I groan in disgust. “You’re a class act. You know that?”

He holds up a fist. “Word.”

“Still pissed about your reaction to Angel?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. You talk a good game when you’re trying to get a woman into bed, but as soon as you meet someone you actually feel something for, you get all irritated. You did it last year with Lara, and you’re doing it now with Angel.”

He leans back and shoves his hand in the waistband of his pants. “Hold that thought while I go get some toilet paper, because what’s coming out of your mouth right now is total shit.”

“Okay, fine. Live in denial. But you’re still going to whack off to pictures of her, right?”