Page 72 of The Billionaire's Beauty

“What?”

“Because you want to strike first and push me away before I push you away the way she pushed you away,” I say, standing my ground.

I know I’ve hit his emotional nail on the head when he transforms right in front of me, turning into a sneering gargoyle version of the man I love. This sudden change is a bit scary, to be honest, and I resist the urge to back up a step. I feel as though I’ve finally met the real enemy only to remember that I left my sword in the car.

“All you need to do is crack your eyes open and realize that I don’t have a heart to work with, Bellamy,” he yells, his voice booming off the walls. “You’re not going to fix me. I don’t need your lectures or your psychology bullshit to tell me what’s wrong with me. I live with it every fucking day. And don’t you throw my mother in my face.”

“I’m not throwing her in your face!” Rising panic makes me shrill. It’s not that I think he’d physically hurt me. He won’t. I’d stake my life on it. It’s that this opponent is so much more fearsome than I ever imagined, and I feel like we’re battling over Griffin’s soul. “I’m asking you not to trash this relationship because you’re too paralyzed to fight some ghost from your past!”

He makes an aborted sound, like a choked bellow. I get the feeling that he’s losing his epic battle to keep all that—whatever that is—locked inside. His fists clench. His eyes flash. His entire body seems to strain against all this turmoil. And I fully understand, for the very first time, why I can’t get close to him. He hasn’t got a brick wall guarding his heart. He’s got something a million times more effective. He’s got that.

“What’s not clicking here, Bellamy? Why are you making me rub your face in it? Try to listen this time: I was fine before you walked into my life and I’ll be fine when you walk out of it! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

I watch him, riveted by his bravado and intransigence. Something about it reminds me of a little boy arguing that he doesn’t need a bath. Completely illogical, but that’s his story and he’s sticking to it.

“I don’t believe you,” I say, staring him down. I don’t know where this absolute certainty comes from. Only that it’s as much a part of me as my brown eyes and hair. “Not for a second. Lie to yourself if it makes you feel better. You can’t lie to me.”

My relentless calm makes a sharp contrast to all his bottled agitation. His breath sounds harsh and his cheeks are flushed. He shows all the veiled fear of a man trying not to lose his ass while changing a flat tire on the interstate with cars zooming by at seventy miles per hour.

“Be as stubborn as you want,” he says. “But facts are facts.”

Stalemated, we face off in a brittle silence.

“Look,” I finally say. “If you’re not going to miss me when I’m gone, just tell me. I can live with that. But don’t throw me away for no good reason. Because I seriously doubt anyone else will ever be as good for you as I am. And we both know you’re going to be miserable when I’m gone.”

He scoffs. But I notice he’s not looking me in the eye again.

“Yeah. Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I say, fed up with this chest-thumping performance theater. “You might want to practice shutting up a little bit more. Because you’re going to come to your senses and want me back. You’ll be looking for a way back onto the playing field. And the more you run off at the mouth now, the harder it’ll be. So get your shit together, Griffin. Get. Your. Shit. Together.”

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