The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(130)

“Not more than living in the country, though.”

He’s hurt.

“Chris, I just . . .” I hesitate, unsure what to say. I need all the facts in front of me. “Where do you see your permanent home being?” I ask. “Long term, like where do you see your children growing up?”

“Between London and New York.”

“In apartments?”

“Yes, my apartments are bigger than most houses, Hayden.”

“I know.” I nod. “It’s true; they are. And will you always work for Miles Media?”

“Of course I will; it’s my family’s business. I’ll never leave the company.”

“Oh.” I sip my wine, unsure what to even say to that.

His future is set in stone.

“In a perfect world, where do you see yourself living?” he asks.

My eyes search his, and I don’t want to say it out loud, because once I say it I can’t take it back.

“Please, just be honest, Haze,” he says softly.

“On the land.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Not necessarily my parents’ farm, but something similar. I eventually want my own animal husbandry business. It’s what I do, what I love, and I’m missing it so much.”

I see the hurt flash through his eyes.

“Would you . . . ever live on a farm?” I tentatively ask. “Can you see yourself living in the country?”

“No.”

“Would you ever try it?”

“No point. I already know that I would hate it.”

We stare at each other as a realization begins to set in.

“What do you hate about the city?” he asks.

“Everything.”

“Specifics.”

“The pollution, the people, the chaos, the paparazzi. It’s just so loud and on steroids. I don’t feel myself here.” I take his hand in mine. “And I desperately want to because I love you, but I already know that to be here, I have to give up who I am.”

His haunted eyes hold mine.

“And maybe I should do that . . .” I shrug. “I just . . .”

“No.” He cuts me off. “I don’t want you to do that.” He cups my face in his hand. “You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t change a thing.”

My eyes well, and a tear escapes and rolls down my face. He wipes it away with his thumb.

“What does this mean for us, Chris?” I whisper.

His nostrils flare. “It means I have to let you go.”

The lump in my throat hurts as I try to hold in my tears.

He kisses me softly. “I can’t ask you to be someone you’re not, Hayden. Because I know for certain that I can’t change who I am.”

Oh no.

“But I love you,” I whisper.

His eyes well with tears. “And I will always love you.”

He takes me into his arms and holds me tight, and the dam breaks, and I cry against his shoulder.

“But how . . . can two people be so in love and it not work out?” I sob.

“Because fairy tales aren’t real.”

I cry harder. “Don’t say that.”

“Deep down I always knew it.”

I pull out of his arms. “I don’t believe that.” I begin to get panicked. He really is saying goodbye. “No. I’ll stay. We’ll work it out. We can do this,” I splutter. “It will be okay.”

“No, Hayden. We won’t.” He stands. “Get your things. I’m taking you to the airport. You will not be unhappy for one more minute because of me. I made a promise to your father that I would look after you, and this is me doing that.”

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

“But you don’t want to stay.”

I sob out loud, and he walks from the room and two minutes later returns with my suitcase. “Come on.”

I screw up my face in tears. “But we love each other.”

“This is one of those cases where love isn’t enough.”

My heart constricts. Oh no.

“Get your things.” He wheels my suitcase to the door and walks out into the foyer. I walk around the apartment, sobbing, as I find my handbag and everything I want to take.

The worst part about it is, deep down I know that he’s right.

I have to leave, and he has to stay.

I take one last look around the beautiful apartment. It’s always felt so cold and unwelcoming to me . . . and now I know why.

It’s not my home.

I screw up my face and cry harder. I walk out the front door and get into the elevator.

Christopher is solemn and staring straight ahead. We ride down to the ground floor to the soft sounds of my sobs. He wheels my suitcase to the car and puts it into the trunk and gets in behind the wheel.

I cry all the way to the airport while he holds my hand in his lap, occasionally lifting it to kiss my fingertips.

We get to the airport, but instead of parking the car, he pulls into the drop-off parking bay. “You’re not coming in?” I whisper.

His eyes well with tears. “. . . I can’t.”

“Baby . . .” I sob.

“Don’t.” He gets out of the car in a rush, and I know he needs this over with. He pops the trunk and gets my suitcase out.