If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(19)

When I finally need to breathe, he pulls away.

I am shaky from the kiss, from his absence from me. From the idea that I enjoyed that way too much.

I look up at him.

He looks down at me.

He’s waiting for a reaction and I’m not sure what to do. The kiss was perfect. Pax is sexy as hell. But he’s so different from me. And he just got a blow job from someone else. The vision of that horrible girl on her knees in front of Pax springs into my head and I cringe. He could very definitely hurt me if I give him the chance. I’ve already had enough pain in life. I don’t need more.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I finally say reluctantly. And the words are so very hard to say.

The warm light dims in Pax’s eyes as he stares at me and I see the disappointment in them, the rejection, before he hardens it into a cool expression that makes me want to weep.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says calmly. “Because I think it’s a very good idea. The best I’ve had in a long, long time.”

He turns around and walks away, out of my shop.

Away from me.

Without another word.

I watch his wide shoulders as he walks away, out of my sight.

Then I sink to my knees right in the middle of my shop. My hands are shaking and my head is spinning.

What did I just do?

Am I insane? I met someone who made me feel something for the first time in the two years since my parents died, and I’m too chicken-shit to pursue anything?

I’m pathetic.

I reach for my phone and call my sister. I speak before she even has a chance to.

“I’m ready for that drink tonight.”





[page]Chapter Nine


Pax



Fuck her.

My head is spinning as I walk woodenly from her shop and to my car. I can’t believe that just happened, actually. I bared myself to someone for the first time in forever and she stomped on it. I don’t know who I’m madder at—her for rejecting me or me for putting myself out there for her to reject.

But either way, f*ck her.

I jam my keys in the ignition and turn the volume up. Hard rock vibrates my chest as the bass rumbles and I tear out of the parking lot and toward the highway to Chicago. Since I’m in a bad mood anyway, I might as well get this over with.

The highway stretches in front of me and the loud music calms me as I drive. I lose myself in it, actually. I allow it to numb me, to absorb the negative thoughts. I almost reach for my vial, which is safely ensconced in my jacket, but I don’t. I told myself that I wouldn’t, not for a while, and I won’t. I’m not weak. And I’m not a *.

As the miles are absorbed by my rearview mirror, the sky swallows the road in the horizon bit by bit until I’m finally crossing the bridge into Chicago and onto the Skyway.

By the time I arrive at my dad’s downtown office, I have managed to put my agitation away, to tuck the image of Mila’s face far away in my mind.

Because f*ck her.

I have the urge to punch a wall, but I don’t. Instead, I make my way to the eighteenth floor and my father’s receptionist lets him know that I am here. I make myself comfortable in his sitting area, taking a mint out of a bowl and popping it into my mouth.

My eyes are closed when my father finally appears twenty minutes later.

“Pax, get your feet off of the furniture.”

His voice is tired and I open my eyes. He looks older since I saw him last quarter. His dark hair is just beginning to gray at the temples, and he has lines around his eyes. And his mouth. His navy blue suit seems to hang a bit on him, like he lost weight and hasn’t taken the time to have his clothing altered. I stare at him, amazed at the idea that my father is growing old.

And then I yank my feet off of the table in front of me.

“Sorry,” I mumble. My father nods and leads me to his big office.

I sit in a chair in front of him and wait until he slides a few papers across his desk toward me.

I don’t even read them, I simply sign my name. I trust him.

“You should always read anything that you sign your name on,” he admonishes me for what seems like the hundredth time regarding this subject. And for the hundredth time, I reply in the same way.

“I do, when it’s a stranger. But you’re my father. I know you aren’t going to f*ck me over.”

Dad sighs again. “Can you at least try to watch your language? It’s the respectful thing to do.”

“Sorry,” I mutter again.

For Christ’s sake. He acts like I’m a child. But that’s part of our problem. Our relationship will always be frozen in his head-back to a time when I was a child and he was the adult. He doesn’t seem to understand that we’re both adults now.

“Alexander Holdings had an exceedingly good quarter,” my dad remarks, taking back the papers and shuffling them. “So your income has increased this time. You really might want to consider investing. You’re twenty-four years old. It’s time to grow your portfolio. And maybe take an interest in your family’s company. Your grandfather has contacted me, wanting to know how to reach you. He’s an old man, Pax. He won’t be around much longer. He wants to know that his company is in good hands.”

I stare at him, fighting the urge to curl my lip.