Cruel Fortune (Cruel #2)(68)

“Hey, buddy. Oh, look how big you’ve gotten.” He kissed me more. “Yes, I do love you. I know. I missed you so much. It’s okay. I’m back.”

Then a hand came and pressed into the elevator to keep the doors from closing on us. Penn leaned into the chamber, looking perfectly disheveled. His dark hair looked as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Stubble grew in along his jawline. And he was out of his typical suit and instead barefoot in black running pants and a T-shirt. Somehow, he still looked hot as sin.

“Did you come here to abduct my dog?” he drawled.

“I’m considering it. He clearly loves me more than you.”

“He’s kind of a whore actually. He gives his affection a bit too freely.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I told Totle. “Your love is the best kind. Unconditional. You’d never break my heart, would you?”

Totle wagged his tail and licked me from chin to forehead.

I laughed and wiped my face. “That’s what I thought.”

“You going to come in or just hang out in the elevator?”

“I guess…I’ll come in.”

I stood from my seat, scooping up Totle in my arms as I entered Penn’s apartment. It looked exactly as I remembered. A slight mess from all his work cluttering the space. His worn leather notebook open on the table. A glass of bourbon next to it. Indie music filtering through the speakers. His signature obscure artist. It looked and smelled and felt just like a year ago.

Penn moved to the table and cleared all of his papers into some semblance of a pile. He closed the notebook with a snap. All those philosophical musings buried away. “Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s not messy,” I told him.

He shrugged and stepped around the couch toward the kitchen. I kissed Totle’s head and then set him down on top of a blanket. He curled into a ball and plopped down.

“What’s this song? I like it.”

Glasses clinked together.

“‘Not Over’ by Cole Massey.”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah. Mournful. The whole playlist is.”

He stepped back around the island and had two glasses in his hands. “Here.” He offered me the liquid. “You look like you could use that.”

I took it in my hands but just stared down at it without taking a sip. I needed to say something. To explain why I was here or what had happened. But I didn’t know where to begin or really what I’d expected to get out of coming up here.

“You think this is a good idea?” he asked after the silence had stretched as thin as paper.

“Me being here?” I asked. “Probably not.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Why exactly are you here?”

“Do you want me to go?” I tipped my head up to judge his words.

He didn’t look like that was what he was saying, but he’d stepped back into the relative safety of the kitchen. “No.”

The word hung between us. No explanation needed.

“But I thought you’d made yourself clear at the club. So, I’m surprised to find you in my apartment.”

I dropped my head backward on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. “I really don’t know what I’m doing here. I just started walking. I couldn’t go home. Then I saw your light on. And…I don’t know.”

He waited for me to elaborate. I didn’t.

“You feel safe with me,” he said. A statement, not a question.

Despite all the shit he’d done to me. And how much I was mad at him for making that stupid bet. And the year of silence. And, and, and…the list went on. No matter what we’d gone through, I did feel like this was a safe place. That he wouldn’t turn me away or push me. I didn’t know what that said about how I felt about him that I could be so angry with him that I was seeing red but still feel safe with him. That I didn’t trust him, and yet…I trusted him. It was irrational and hurt my head too much in the moment to put it all together.

“Yes,” I whispered.

Penn stepped back into the living room and took a seat in an armchair across from me. He looked more relaxed. The crystal glass dangling in one hand over the side of the armrest. His foot nestled across his knee. His gaze locked on me. Weighing.

“What?” I asked.

“You look…like you.”

I gave him a quizzical look. “And I normally don’t?”

“No, I’ve only seen you in designer dresses and heels. This”—he gestured to my flares, billowy top, and moccasins—“is the Natalie that I knew.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a big party to go to tonight. The seventies apparel came back out to play.”

“It suits you.”

I waved my hand at him. “You’re in running clothes.”

“Yes.”

“And not a suit,” I pointed out.

“I’m at home, working.”

“On what?” I asked. Anything to delay the inevitable.

“Edits for my book. We’re in the final stages of production. I can’t help but tinker with the arguments while I have it.”

“I know that feeling,” I muttered. “When are you releasing?”

“Sometime next year. Academic books work on a different timeline than mainstream publishing.”