Page 31 of The Perfect Mistake

He wipes a tear away with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Don’t cry, Isa.”

The words make me cry harder. Maybe because it’s the first time someone hasn’t tried to offer solutions right away. My mother tried to solve it, Connie suggested other jobs, and my siblings told me how we could become a three-act stand-up comedy show. Right. As if it’s just straight-forward and simple.

Tears streak unbridled down my face, and a broken sound escapes me.

Alec groans and pulls me against his chest. He smells even better up close, and I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling. One of his arms wraps around my shoulders and then the other joins, a steady band of muscle surrounding me.

Something comes to rest atop my head. His chin, perhaps. He brushes a hand over my hair, and it sends another shiver through me.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. It’s muffled against my crown, and God, he’s holding me. Here, on a terrace, at his little sister’s wedding party. “Fuck, I don’t know what to say.”

My tears subside as quickly as they came. For weeks now, my emotions have been erupting like a volcano, only to return to a simmer soon after. Sadness gives way to mortification. I take a step back and give him a weak smile. “It’s okay. Sorry about that.”

Alec shakes his head. There’s a furrow between his brows and intensity in his eyes. He lifts his hand, like he’s going to brush away my tears again, but it falls before reaching halfway to me.

“Don’t apologize,” he says instead.

I wipe my cheeks. “This wasn’t how I expected the night to end.”

“If Connie sees you, we’ll tell her they’re happy tears.”

I force a smile. “A disproportionate response, don’t you think?”

“You’re very happy,” he says. “Ecstatic, even. I can attest.”

I catch sight of the wet splotch on his shirt. There’s a streak of mascara across the front, and embarrassment burns through me. “Shit,” I say. “I stained your shirt. I’m sorry. I’ll—”

He waves it away. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t think about it.” He glances down at me and frowns. “You’re cold.”

“Oh.” I do have goosebumps along my bare arms, but it’s not so bad. But he’s staring at my arms like they’re offending him.

“Come on. Let’s get inside.” His hand hovers at the small of my back, just barely touching.

I take a few steps. One of them turns wobbly, and I chuckle in apology. “Sorry. I’m… I haven’t really had this much to drink in years.”

If ever.

His voice deepens. “Want us to go home?”

For a moment, I let those words spread through me. Let myself pretend that it means more than what it does. Not my home, though. And he’s not mine in any kind of way.

“Yes,” I say. “If you’re ready to leave?”

He leans nearer, and his breath washes over my ear. “I’ve been ready since the moment we arrived.”

We say goodbye to Connie, and call Mac to bring the car around. The ride down in an elevator is filled with a silence that feels companionable. I even brace against him to refasten the clasp on my shoe that’s come undone, and he holds me with a steadiness that’s tantalizingly reassuring.

Living with this man is going to make my daydreams so much worse.

“I think I might order pizza,” I say in the car. I slump back against the seat and close my eyes, relishing the calm blackness and the cottony feel in my head. “That’s something else I haven’t had for a very long time.”

A hand brushes over mine, and there’s a chuckle. It’s distinctly masculine. “I’ll handle it,” a baritone responds. I doze off, and it isn’t until we’re back outside the Upper East Side building that I’m nudged awake. Mac says goodnight, and Alec and I head upstairs.

My eyelids feel heavy.

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