Page 51 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Fine,” Lizzie says, fishing her car keys out of her pocket, her gaze still locked on my face. “You don’t love her. But answer me this: if you had the chance to have sex with her . . . would you?”

My face heats at the question.

Immediate, gut response? Hell yes.

Given the chance, I’d fuck her six ways from Sunday. On her back. On her stomach. On her knees, the rug scraping her skin as I hold her in place and work my hard-on inside her wet pussy.

Lizzie and I are close but this . . . I’m not going there with her. My relationship with Savannah, whatever is left of it, is too damn personal. Maybe she wants me back, maybe she doesn’t, but I’m not going to violate her trust by discussing our nonexistent sex life with my sister-in-law—no matter how well-intending Lizzie is.

“No,” I finally say, diving recklessly into the lie, “I don’t want to fuck Savannah Rose.”

“Oh.”

My head jerks to the right, only to find the woman in question hovering in the doorway. One glance at her expression is all I need to know that she heard what I said. And instead of that singular look of desire that the reporter fromTheNew Orleans Dailycaught, Savannah stares back at me wearing the same impassive mask I’ve grown to loathe.

The heiress mask.

The holier-than-thou mask.

The you-can’t-hurt-me mask.

“Sorry for”—she visibly inhales, her nostrils flaring—“not calling in advance. I had something of yours. Figured you might want it back.”

I tear my gaze away from her face to the small bundle she’s gripping to her chest. With slow, measured movements, she slips the scarf out from around the bundle until my heart is in my throat and I’m standing here like an idiot.

She brought me my sketchbook.Thesketchbook.

Which means that she spent at least five-thousand dollars on purchasing something she always intended to return to me . . . Meanwhile, she walked into Inked, just in time to hear that I have absolutely zero plans to strip her naked and make her come.

God-fucking-dammit.

16

Savannah

So, this is how Owen felt when I sent him packing.

Raw.

Embarrassed.

Hurt.

My head is a jumbled mess of barely cohesive thoughts that do absolutely nothing to propel me into motion. I can’t turn away. I can’trunaway. As though I’m reliving a nightmare, I stand immobile, playing Owen on repeat:

No, I don’t want to fuck Savannah Rose. No, I don’t want to fuck Savannah Rose. No, I don’t want to—

Dammit!

His words burn. Like the worst kind of toxin, they seep into the crevices of my insecurities, dredging poison through my veins, pouring sludge into my heart. I open my mouth. Snap it shut a second later. In my arms, his sketchbook feels like a beacon of my own vulnerability. He didn’t ask for this—to be fair, he didn’t ask for much aside from that one dance—and here I am, showing up unannounced yet again when he’s made it all too clear that we’ve hit the end of our road.

Honestly, I’m surprised there’s no DEAD-END sign waiting to greet me with booze, chocolate, and at least a dozen sappy romantic comedies.10 Things I Hate About Youhas always been my go-to breakup movie.

Pull yourself together.

Donotfall apart.

I’ve spent a lifetime living up to the Rose name. When the other girls in grade school teased me about my wild hair and my awkward demeanor and my penchant for being the teacher’s pet, I turned up my nose and walked away before they could see my tears. When guys in college chose my more outgoing, bubbly girlfriends, I pasted a smile on my face and wished them the best of luck. And when my dad demanded that I fulfill my contract withPut A Ring On It,I did so with my head held high.

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