Page 119 of Dirty Rich Cinderella Story

“Then what is it?”

I hold my hands out. “Look at where we live.”

“And?”

“The first thing he said when we got to the hallway was that he was getting us out of here.”

“He cares about you. He wants to take care of you.”

“Getting us out of this place is not a reason to move in with him.”

“He didn’t ask until he saw this place? Is that what worries you?”

“Yes. He wants me with him all the time. He does. I see that. He gave me a key. It just feels like seeing how we live pushed him to take the next step to make it official. That’s not why I want to take the next step and that’s why I didn’t want him to come here.” Every feeling I have felt this night caves in on me. “Even if we could really be together, and we can’t—I can’t live with my boss—how will I know, how will he know, that his motivation is me, and us, and not our situation?”

“I can’t answer that,” my mother says. “But in your heart, I think you can. If that means taking a step back, do it, but don’t step too far. You might not find your way back to him.”

***

Cole

I leave Lori’s place, go to the hospital, bribe a few people, and despite the late hour, manage to get the Havens’ bill paid off before I depart; an anonymous gift, of course. Because I’m not leaving her in that cracker box. Just knowing I took care of it takes some of the edge off, but my nerves are jumping and I fight the need to go back to Lori’s place and bring her home with me where she belongs.

I walk into my apartment that is empty without Lori. No laughter. No soft sweet voice. No her, naked in my arms. I don’t know how this night went this wrong, but it was a shit-show the size of a volcanic eruption. My cell phone rings and I glance down to find Ashley’s number. I don’t answer. I’ve already talked to her two times since leaving the restaurant. The only person I want to talk to is Lori.

I peel off my jacket and tie, and walk to the bar, grab a glass for whiskey and decide I need ice or I’m going to drink way too fucking fast. I head to the kitchen and of course, the damn ice machine isn’t working. I open the freezer that I never open, and stare at the cash sitting next to the ice tray. I grab it and count five thousand dollars. This is how much she doesn’t trust me. If she did, she wouldn’t be so damn afraid of leaning on me. Of needing me. And what did I do? Paid off the rest of her debt.

I throw the damn money in the trashcan and walk to the bar and fill my glass, sans the ice. I asked her to move in with me. Now, she wants space. I down my drink and have another. I asked her to move in with me. I stare at my cell phone that remains silent. “She needs space,” I murmur. Fuck. I toss the phone on the couch, fighting every urge in me to go to her again. I keep pushing her and she steps back. And back, and so fucking far back that I’m in another room where she clearly wants me to stay.

And isn’t that the point? Me, trying to give her what she wants. I’ve obviously not been listening to what she’s been telling me. Now she has spoken. Space is what she wants. Space is what I will give her. Now she’ll be happy. I listened.

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