Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Well, hell, Sammy.” A shocked laugh jumps from his throat as he runs a hand through his hair. “What are we even doing here, then?”
“What do you mean?” I whisper, starting to tremble a bit. For as nice a man as Gavin is, he’s still at least fifty pounds heavier than me and nearly a foot taller. And right now, I’m just feeling really uneasy in his presence.
“I mean exactly what I said. What are we doing here?” he repeats. “I want to be with you, and it feels like you don’t want to be with me.”
“You’re upset with me?” I question, and his response is a frustrated exhale of air.
“Sammy, what am I supposed to think here?” He scoffs. “I’ve been putting in all this work and effort, and it just feels like you’re dragging your feet. Or stringing me along. Or both. I get you being a little uptight, but this, tonight, it feels like you’re purposely being a cocktease.”
A cocktease? Is that what I’ve been doing?
None of this is sitting well with me. My stomach hurts and my chest is tight. I don’t know if I’m wrong or if he’s the one in the wrong at this point. I just know I don’t want to do this anymore.
I look out toward the street before meeting his eyes again. His expression is fraught with irritation, and it makes me feel too uncomfortable to keep standing here. “Gavin, I think we should call it a night.” Nothing is going to change the course of this conversation right now, no matter what I say or do.
“Yeah. I think I agree,” he retorts on a deep sigh before turning and leaving me standing there without a goodbye.
Damn, he really isn’t happy with me.
There’s a part of me that feels really bad about the whole situation, but there’s another part that feels like I’m seeing a different side of him.
A side I’m not so sure I like all that much.
My legs feel like jelly as I walk the last block to La Croisette, my mind a raging bull of upset.
Gavin’s called me at least three times, all of which I’ve sent straight to voice mail, and now he’s switched over to texts.
My phone pings so manically, it feels like my purse might explode if I allow it to continue.
Pausing in front of my workplace’s marquee, I slide my phone out of my purse and pause to read the message showing on the screen.
Gavin: Sammy, please call me back. I’m so sorry, and I don’t want to leave things like this. You’re important to me.
Regret and distrust war inside my chest as I consider the events that just transpired, concluding only that there’s no conclusion to be made at all.
I’m not going to know how to feel about any of this unless I give it some time to marinate, and the idea of going home to an empty apartment only makes everything seem worse.
I need some time to decompress first—some time to let the noise of the world wash out the voices in my head.
After placing Gavin’s message thread on Do Not Disturb, I tuck my phone back into my purse and start to walk again. I don’t know where I’m going, so I focus on the sound of my heels on the concrete until I figure it out.
It’s soothing and rhythmic and louder than any of the passing sounds around me.
I pace my heart against it until I feel like I can breathe again, coming to a stop right in front of the little bar where I ran into Noah the first time—Bailey’s.
I don’t even think about it before opening the door. Chatter fills the softly lit space as I step inside, and the change of pace from the deserted sidewalk makes my ears feel like they want to pop.
I head straight for the long mahogany bar that sits along the right side of the establishment. Only one bartender stands behind the massive structure highlighted by a cornucopia of liquor bottles shining in the overhead lighting, and I find myself hoping it doesn’t take forever for him to make it to me.
After the night I’ve had, I wouldn’t blame myself for starting with a shot of hard liquor. And if I didn’t know with absolute certainty that three a.m. would become a time of regret as a result, I would do it.
“What’s your poison?” the young blond asks when he finally makes his way over to me a few minutes later and tosses one of those cardboard coasters onto the surface of the bar.
“A glass of Chardonnay, please.”
His nod is all the confirmation I need as he moves away to fill my order.
Internally, I feel overstimulated and downright overwhelmed at how quickly I’ve found myself in the center of even more chaos. And regardless of the fact that I’m still wearing my coat, a sudden chill runs down my spine.