Page 86 of One Billion Reasons

“Hurt him? I’m not going to hurt him. Just the opposite. I want nothing to do with him, Liam. I’m not going to try and fix him.”

I would have to be ten kinds of stupid to run back to a man who told me in no uncertain terms that he would prefer not to have feelings for me. Who can’t even admit that he loves me. Not good enough, Miles. Not good enough.

38

Miles

The pilot calls me the next evening to let me know the jet is back at the jetport. It took him a little longer than normal with all the private jet traffic coming in for the wedding. She’s gone. I knew she’d leave. I wouldn’t have stayed either. I can’t blame her. Last night was a train wreck I couldn’t stop. I deserve every ounce of blame. Every insult. I hurt her and I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for it. I know I’ll never forgive myself.

I’m getting ready for the wedding, and my hands feel thick and awkward as I tie my bow tie. There’s no point in attending, but I don’t want Mark trying to steal the deal away by ingratiating himself with Catherine, and I don’t want Amanda to be offended. As much as I dislike her family, they have power. I shrug on my tux jacket. The last clean one. The others are covered in sand from when Lane and I used them as towels. I force my shoulders to relax as I head to the ballroom where the ceremony will be held. Don’t think about Lane.

I sit in the back of the ceremony and watch woodenly. It’s objectively lovely, and Amanda is crying tears of happiness when she says her vows. I couldn’t care less. The only thing that brings me any joy is imagining Mark tripping right into my fist when he gets up. He gives me a sly smile from across the aisle, and I simmer with rage. Fucking prick.

I somehow make it through the cocktail hour and the speeches with single-word responses. The deck is festooned with lights that seem to float above the tables. Lane would love this. She’d take her phone camera out mid-conversation. I clench my fist and return to eating. The awkwardness between me and my table companions is palpable. The servers are only supposed to serve wine with dinner, but the bar will give me as much whiskey as I want. So I get up at regular intervals to refill my glass. Each time I make my way across the floor, it gets a little harder to walk in a straight line. On my fourth—or is it fifth?—trip, Catherine is there too. Her eyes are predatory and intense. Like she’s been waiting for me. A sober me would realize this conversation is about to be awful, but drunk me leans heavily on the bar and signals for another drink. I’ve been tipping the bartenders with hundreds, and they’ve been giving me double the regular amount.

“I heard a rumor,” Catherine finally says. She’s watching me as I turn to her and sip the whiskey.

“Yeah?” My voice is rough. I sound drunk.

“Yes, asshole. I heard a rumor that you hired Lane to be your date for this week.” Time seems to slow to a drip. Or maybe that’s the alcohol making me muddy and stupid.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask slowly.

“Mark mentioned it. He overheard a conversation between the two of you.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” I mutter. I scan for Mark, but I don’t see him.

“So it’s true?”

I look back at Catherine. Her arms are crossed, and she’s watching me carefully.

“It doesn’t matter.” I sigh. Everything inside me is numb, except for the burning pit of anger in my stomach. “It started out fake, but for me, it was always real. But she hates me.” And I don’t blame her.

She makes a surprised sound. “You know I can’t sell you the property now, right? I told you to show me you cared about something other than yourself. But hiring someone to be your date and pretend to be in love with you? Mark might be an asshole, but he’s an honest asshole.”

“I would expect nothing less.” I tip the whiskey glass back and drain it. The burn makes me sputter a little.

I glance back at Catherine. I can feel that my eyes are dead, my face expressionless. It’s the same expression I wore after the accident, after Lane stopped talking to me the first time. I never want to speak to you again. My chest aches, and I signal for another drink.

Catherine chokes out a laugh. “You’re in love with her.” She gapes. “You hired her to be your date and you fell for her. And she left you. That’s… insane. Like something out of a movie.”

“And yet, here I am,” I say acidly.

Catherine considers me, like she might be willing to change her mind. Or maybe not. I’m slower and fuzzier than when we started this conversation, and I can’t make heads or tails of her expression.

“You really don’t care about the house, do you?” Her eyes are assessing. Why is she asking me this?

I turn back to the bar and take the fresh drink they’ve poured me. The property pales in comparison to Lane. The only woman I’ve ever wanted. Fuck.

“Nothing matters but her.”

* * *

The next morning, my head pounds with regret and poor decisions. The light slicing through the curtains makes me groan. My sheets smell like her. I slept on her side of the bed like some sad, heartbroken fuck. You are a sad, heartbroken fuck, my brain whispers. I scrub a hand over my face and check the time. 9:13 a.m. Practically late for me. I have a text from George asking if I need the plane this morning. From 5:07 a.m. Maniac.

I should go straight back to New York and get on with my life. Focus on my work. But she will be in my building. And the thought of seeing her but having no right to touch her, no right to even speak to her…it feels like I can’t breathe.

So instead of going home, I call Liam. When I show up at his house, it’s late afternoon, and the clearing around his tiny cottage glows in the sun. There’s a tangle of fishing gear off to the side and the beat-up old truck he’s had since high school. Liam is waiting for me on the back porch, Buster by his side.

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