Arranged(78)

He was dressed immaculately, not a hair out of place. I was decked out to the nines.

Both of us in our breakup best. Oh sweet vanity.

“Thank you for everything—” I began, looking unflinchingly into his unbearably handsome face. I’d been rehearsing the words.

“Don’t thank me,” he interrupted in a terrible voice. He grabbed my shoulders in both of his big hands. His grip was hard. His eyes were desperate.

“Don’t fucking thank me.” He was shaking as he said it, shaking so hard he shook me with him.

I shrugged him off, stepping back. “Thank you for the opportunities,” I continued determinedly. “And for the lessons.” It came out heavy and thick, like something unholy being dragged out of me.

“Stop it,” he said.

“Happily. Now sign the papers, and I’ll be out of your life for good.”

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “And don’t say that. Any of it. Take it back. And don’t thank me.” He was begging by the end, his voice little more than a whisper. “Don’t leave me.”

I stared at him. “Is it about the money? Is that it? Will Pasco pull the rug out from under your business once we’re divorced?” It was petty, but I wanted to know.

He glared. “My father already withdrew his initial capital. He did it as soon as you filed for divorce. It didn’t matter. I already found other backers. Fuck my father’s money. This has nothing to do with that. This is about us. I don’t want a divorce.”

It was something. I couldn’t even lie to myself about that, but I was still resolute. In a matter of months he’d broken my heart in too many places for me to risk it with him again. Imagine the damage if I stayed longer. “This is all for the best.” I was certain of it at that point. I turned to leave.

“What if it’s not?” he asked my retreating back. “What if it’s for the worst? Will you come back?”

I swiveled back, surprising him. “Why would I? Give me one good reason.”

My lips couldn’t shape the words, and his heart could not own them.

I love you.

That might have held some weight, but he’d never lied to me. Why start now?

His silence was just the demolition crew I’d needed to clear out the rest of my heart.

I turned back to leave. My hand was on the doorknob when he spoke again.

“I never lied to you.” He seemed to pluck the words right out of my brain, throwing them at me like they should mean something. Like they should matter.

“So what?” I spat back. “You think that outright betrayal is less hurtful than lies? Why the hell does it matter that you didn’t lie? Lying would’ve been a mercy.”

“It matters because it means that when I do make promises to you, I’ll keep them.”

“I won’t ask for any promises from you, Calder. You’re off the hook. It’s just what you wanted from the start.”

“It’s not what I want now.”

I couldn’t stand the way his anguished face made me want to believe his tempting words. It made me feel vicious. “How’s Fatima, by the way? Are you the father?”

He flinched, taking a step back. “I still don’t know yet. She’s dragging it out as much as possible. I wish she’d just put me out of my misery.”

I swallowed hard. “You’re doing the same thing with this divorce, you know. Now put me out of my misery.”





CHAPTER





THIRTY-SIX





Banks didn’t quite put me out of my misery, not how I’d hoped, but he did sign the papers.

Our weekly coffee dates were beyond strange.

Beyond strange as in stiltedly civil. Almost friendly but charged.

Our first one took place in a crowded coffee shop in Midtown Manhattan. I’d picked it out personally for its lack of intimacy. Chances were we wouldn’t even get a table to ourselves.

But either I was unlucky or Banks was the opposite because he was there waiting for me, with a relatively private table in the corner for us. Chester pointed him out right after we walked in, but my eyes had already found him like they couldn’t even help themselves.

He stood when he saw me. He was painfully serious in his suit and tie, dark unruly hair slicked back with a vengeance.

He swallowed a big enough lump in his throat that I watched its progress from across the packed room.

He was wringing his hands. He looked nervous and anxious.

He looked like heartbreak and pain and multiple orgasms.

I wanted nothing more than to say fuck it, grab his arm, and head for the nearest mattress. I wanted him to do absolutely anything he wanted with me. My body. My heart.

I was a pathetic creature. All of our contracts had been voided, but it didn’t matter. It was as though he owned me still.

I shook off the urge with an iron will. Nothing had changed. No matter how much his eyes melted with sincerity, he was still the man with the pregnant mistress on the side, the man who’d broken my heart with minimal effort in a few short months.

It was smart to get out while I still had any pieces of it left, I told myself firmly and for the millionth time.

My feet had been automatically moving me toward him during that whole masochistic thought process, and before I knew it, I was in arms’ reach. He grabbed me by the shoulders drawing me close enough to kiss. I thought he was going to do it, the bold, gorgeous bastard, but he merely gave me two firm cheek kisses before drawing away to stare at me solemnly.