Page 70 of The Billionaire's Beauty

18

Bellamy

I’ll be fine without you.

He says it with zero inflection. Zero expression.

Zero regret.

This whole cut-and-dried routine is seriously starting to do a number on me. Ending things between us is one thing. Ending it with the same demeanor he’d use to reassure his server that he doesn’t mind changing his dinner order—Oh, you’re out of the halibut? Just give me the salmon, then; I’ll be fine without the halibut—adds a whole new level of insult to injury.

“And what about us?” I hate the slight tremor in my voice. It makes me sound weaker and more vulnerable than I already feel. “Since you have everything all planned out and I’m sure you’ve given this whole situation a lot of thought. What happens to us if I leave now?”

He tries to speak, but the words seem stuck in his mouth. I’d love to convince myself that there’s a part of him that hates what he’s doing, but I’m not sure I could manage it.

“We’ve had a great time together,” he says, his voice sounding rusty until he pauses to clear his throat. “But we always knew this was going to be a summer thing. Fall is almost here. It’s time for you to go start your new life. And for me to go back to my old life.”

Okay. So there it is at last. The reason he’s been acting so weird since he got back. I reel in silence for a beat or two, almost relieved to hear him say it. Until the pain finally hits in some sort of a delayed reaction, leaving me to absorb this information the way I’d absorb a jab between my ribs with an ice pick.

It hurts too hard. Cuts too deep.

I’ll be okay. I’m a strong and capable woman who has successfully managed this man for the past year. I’ll manage this, too. But first, I need to figure out whether this is the same kind of defense mechanism he loves to hit me with whenever I get too close or a genuine thanks for the laughs kiss-off. I need to know whether he’ll be heartbroken when I’m gone or whether his new assistant will send me the standard end-of-the-affair bouquet of flowers to my new home out west.

“So…that’s it?” I ask.

“That’s it.”

“And you can’t even look at me?”

Evidently, he can’t. His attention remains fixed on some indeterminate point just past my shoulders.

“Look.” A tinge of frustration creeps into his voice. “I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“Just tell me. Is there someone else? Is that it?”

I hate myself for asking. But I need to know.

He softens. Just a bit.

“No, Bellamy.”

Miracle of miracles, he meets my gaze for a fleeting second, long enough for me to glimpse turbulence in his flashing eyes but not long enough for me to analyze whether it comes from irritation that he’s not rid of me yet or genuine regret. Even so, I believe that there’s no one else. Maybe I’m a bigger fool than I ever feared, but I do.

“You’re sick of me?”

He takes a deep breath and looks directly at me. We stare at each other, the moment stretching into infinity. Honest to God, I feel things clicking into place between us. Connections being made.

Part of him wants to lie. Part of him wants to tell the truth. Which part will win?

“No,” he admits quietly.

“You don’t care about me?”

He opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t answer.

“I think we should talk about this,” I say. “Work something out. Because I’m not ready for it to be over. Are you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I’m ready for or not ready for. I’m not the relationship type. Never have been. Never will be. That’s not going to change.”

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