Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(47)

My heart almost leaps out of my chest and toward him when I realize he wants my mouth. He wants my mouth bare—with nothing but me.

But I’m so scared I’m trembling. I think of Trent. Of us, on this break.

Finally there’s a good guy who likes me, who might love me. And here is this guy who can have everything he wants and who can take it all away. Who is already such a threat between me and Trent, between me and any other guy.

I cannot get on the Tahoe rollercoaster. Maybe before, when it would be a one-night stand, it was an option.

Now I like him.

Now I care more about him than I care about makeup, jobs, apartments, friends, chocolate.

He’s funny and I think of him often and he’s generous and protective and cocky. And he makes me feel alive. And more than anything—a revelation, really, because a year ago I never thought it possible that we could grow to be this close—I’m too scared to lose his friendship too.

I push myself to my feet, my voice thick with unwanted lust. “I have to go.”

He catches my wrist. “Hey. Stay.”

His blue eyes bore into me, something fiery crackling in their depths that some hidden part of me fiercely responds to with a hot, tight little ache.

Something about the look in his eyes transports me to the Saints’ wedding.

That same rawness is there, that same quiet demand, that same hunger.

When he asked me if I wanted him and I said no.

This moment if he asked me again, I don’t know if my answer would be the same. But then what? Then I’d lose his friendship, and still have the pleasure of watching him womanize his way across the continent?

Thank you, but I deserve better than that. Even Trent is better than that.

“I really have to go.” I pull my wrist free of his grasp and head to the elevators.

I’m already repeatedly pressing the elevator button when he calls my name.

I turn. He’s standing with his legs spread and a look of determination and undiluted frustration on his face. “Do you think about us at all, Regina?”

“Yes.”

His eyes sparkle menacingly.

“But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever do anything about it. You want other things, and I want what you can’t give. So…eat your pie and…get well soon,” I hurry to say as I board the elevator and then turn.

We keep staring all the way until the doors close. And even when the doors close, I hear him slam something hard and growl, “Jesus goddammit f*ck!!”

And my throat swells with emotion when I am pretty sure that he threw my pie at the wall.





HOME


The next few weeks feel as if I have shoved the entire contents of my life inside a blender and pressed spin. I’ve moved several times in my life, but this time it feels a bit more nerve-wracking because I’m moving to the first apartment meant just for me.

In winter, the birds sense a change, and they migrate in groups, all looking to improve their situation. After Rachel got married and Wynn moved in with Emmett, it seemed I was the only bird not migrating with the others. But that changed this summer when I met with Tahoe’s friend, William Blackstone, who showed me a beautiful apartment, the perfect size for me and in the perfect Loop location that I adore. It’s a one-bedroom, with a bedroom twice the size of my current one, views to die for, and a closet that I could probably never fill up.

It’s time to fly the coop.

Now, my last days here, I glance around my old apartment and to the pile of boxes I’ve begun to tape closed. The apartment Rachel and I shared for years. I know the creak of my bedroom door no matter how much I oil it. I know the noisy hours, and know that I’ll wake up when our neighbors turn on the shower on the other side of my bedroom wall. My other wall was where I could always hear my best friend and her now-husband heatedly f*cking on the other side. I know this apartment, every detail of it, and what it’s been through (like leaks and cracks in the mirrors) for the past few years. But now my lease is up and I have to leave.

So it’s Friday night, and it’s just me and these boxes.

I take a sip of wine and wonder why it looks so spacious without my clutter, and why it also looks so worn without the little details that enhanced it—sort of like makeup?

I have a thousand good memories here. Some bad too, like the death of our neighbor. But despite my sadness, there’s a feeling of certainty that there is nothing more for me here. I’m making a change. A positive change. Turning a new page. Changing my scenery.

This one-year lease will give me time to save up more money to buy my own place. I want to lay down roots and I want to make a home without waiting for someone else to want to be in it with me.

I want to be happy. I want to feel complete.



*



After all those weeks packing boxes, I finally move into my new building on a hot July day.

It’s said that home is where the heart is, and the big window facing the west and the spacious closet just for me have already made my heart soar.

I walk into my new apartment, blinded by the sunlight streaming through the windows, hardly believing this incredible place is mine. I stalk to the window and stare at the view I will stare out at on many future mornings. Beautiful neighboring buildings, clean streets, flying flags at the foot of a school and a park. The nearby Loop. I head to the closet and admire the numerous racks, empty and waiting for my shoes, accessories, and clothes. A sense of incredible amazement permeates every pore in my body as I look around, seriously happy and lightheaded.