A Cosmic Kind of Love(9)

Space was fun. And hot. Well, actually it was freezing, but he made it really hot.

I ignored the stupid flutter in my belly as I returned to the office. For goodness’ sake, I had a boyfriend. No way should I develop the equivalent of a high school crush on a man I didn’t even know.



* * *





“I made it!” I gasped for air as George opened the door to his apartment in Brooklyn. While I rented a one-bedroom apartment in Kensington that made me long for the backpacking life, George, my financial manager boyfriend—whom I’d only seen once a week in the last month because of his busy career—rented a top-floor apartment in an attractive brownstone in Prospect Heights. It was so much bigger and brighter and airier than my place, and I really hoped one day he might ask me to move in with him so we could see each other more.

My hope had nothing to do with his master bathroom or the four hundred square feet of extra space. Really.

George stared at me like I was a lunatic. “Why are you sweating?”

I pushed past him into the apartment. “You wanted me . . .” I breathed through a stitch in my rib, holding my side for a second. “Me . . . you wanted me . . . here at six thirty. I think I’m dying.” I leaned on his leather sectional for support.

“I didn’t say kill yourself to do it.” My boyfriend placed a hand on my back. “Jesus, you’re really hot.”

I grinned through my breathlessness. “Why, thank you. You’re not too shabby yourself.”

He frowned at me. “Where is your coat? Did you decide to forgo one since you planned on running here?”

Remembering my near-death experience on the subway that morning, I stiffened. “Something like that.”

I gazed toward the kitchen. The main living space was open-plan. “What’s cooking? I don’t smell anything.” I turned back to George. “Are we doing takeout? Oh, and hey!” I hugged him, relieved when he hugged me back, because he was acting kind of weird. Usually the first thing he did when he saw me was hug me. George was six feet four, an entire foot taller than me. We shared an apathy for working out, and I loved that he wasn’t muscly and intimidating. He gave good cuddle.

“So yeah, hey.” He squeezed me and then set me back. “Let’s talk.”

Dread filled me as he took my hand and led me to the sectional.

We all knew what “let’s talk” was code for. My heart raced.

Once we sat down, I blurted out, “Are you breaking up with me?”

George’s mossy-green eyes were his most attractive feature. I loved staring into his eyes. Usually. Not now, while they filled up with pity.

Yuck.

“Hallie, you’re great.” He gave me a condescending smile and a pat on my hand. “You’re cute, and you’re fun, and the sex is definitely in my top three, but you’re like the kind of girl I enjoyed dating in college, you know. You get into hilarious situations that make us all laugh, and you’re always up for a party.”

I was?

I couldn’t remember the last time I partied.

College, I think.

“But I’m thirty this year and . . . uh . . . well . . . I work for very important clients, and I have to attend a lot of serious, sophisticated events, and, uh . . . well, that’s not really your thing.”

I gaped at him, stunned. “Not my thing? I organize those events.”

“Exactly!” He grinned as if pleased I understood.

Understood what?

I understood crap!

“You plan parties for a living. Who does that? And you can’t tell people what you’re really thinking because you want everyone to love you. You eat things you hate eating to please people who actually couldn’t give a fuck if you eat their awful canapés, and you end up in these mortifying situations because you can’t say no. Yes, it’s funny, but it’s also embarrassing for me. I need a wife who is serious. A wife with a backbone. A wife with an impressive high-powered job who gets what that’s like and understands the seriousness of my work, you know. And, um, I think we’ve lasted this long because you are very giving in the bedroom . . . but I can’t keep following my dick. It’s time to grow up.”

Did he just say what I think he said?

I sprang to my feet, so outraged I felt like I was choking. I could feel my face darkening with furious, fiery blood and a lack of oxygen.

I was fun and cute and giving in the bedroom?

I embarrassed him?

He’d dated me this long only because I was giving in the bedroom?

For a start, three months wasn’t that long, and we’d barely seen each other for one month. Oh, and my people-pleasing bothered him? Really? What the hell did he think drove me to give in the bedroom when he never ever gave back?

No, sirree, he did not.

I’d wasted my best stuff on him.

Only for the condescending asshole to tell me I wasn’t good enough to be his girlfriend?

You are a pompous . . . selfish . . . mundane . . . “Little man!” I yelled the last part of my thoughts out loud.

George blinked up at me in shock. “I’m six four,” he replied inanely.

I raised an eyebrow and crooked my pinkie finger at him. “Yes, and in proportion you are not.”

He gaped, his voice high-pitched as he threw back, “Uh! That was hurtful, unnecessary, and just confirms I’m right to break up with you.”