Page 23 of Those Heartbreak Scars

And this last coffee shop near the university was another waste of time. America doesn’t work at any of the ten coffee places I’ve been to so far. Fuck it, I should call it quits on this stupid idea. Go back to the hotel and prepare the contracts for that player, Everett Mann. Talk to a few more brands about sponsoring him.

The more I have lined up to woo him with, the quicker I’ll seal this deal. After last night getting out of here seems like the best course of action.

I figured coming to Cambridge to meet with him would give me a chance to check in on America. As a friend. I could handle that asshole professor for her too. Make things easier.

That’s if she went back to school. EJ hadn’t mentioned it, which means she hasn’t talked to her parents about it. And I didn’t get a chance to ask her at dinner. But I remember she mentioned she worked at a coffee shop.

After last night, the only way I suspect she’s going to talk to me about school or anything is if I run into her.

When America and Everett walked out of that restaurant, it hit me that I couldn’t leave things so badly. I tried to call her a couple times.

But when those calls weren’t answered, as stupid as it is, all I could think about was how he’d squeezed her ass while he’d made a comment about what she was hiding under that dress.

How those curves she’d covered in gold last night had fit so sweetly in my hands that night in Positano. They’d bounced and swayed as I’d thrust into her. And she’d fit me so well. Tasted so pretty.

So much so the first thing I’d done when I got her alone wasn’t to find out what the divide between us was so we could fix it, but to sink inside her as fast as I could.

By the time I’d hung up my jacket and kicked off my shoes last night, a visual of him and her all over each other was firmly planted in my mind. Fuck, it didn’t sit well. I’d popped a couple Tylenol for the jaw pain and throbbing temples that had accompanied my inability to kick America out of my head.

So I’d texted her, expecting that I wouldn’t get a response—she hasn’t responded to me in months—but incapable of stopping myself. And then I texted her again as I tried to walk off the agitation at the way she took a conversation that was never meant for her ears. And then I’d drunk a couple of fingers of Glenfiddich and sent a couple more texts before going to bed.

Only to toss and turn for hours. Check my phone more times than I did when I was working on securing Bryce Manilow’s representation for the NHL. Imagining her orgasming for him again and again. Punched my damn pillow.

When sleep came it was restless. I woke with my sheets twisted around my legs and the memory of Indy choosing that asshole she married. My chest felt like it was full of glass shards.

I rub my hand over the pain and anger that I have yet to work out how to quit. EJ said it would get easier, but on this he’s wrong. It doesn’t. I hate Indy, and I love her. I want to hurt her,and I want her to be happy. I fucking miss her more than should be possible. Like a phantom limb. But I would take a hacksaw to my own arm to rid myself of her. She left me, and yet, she didn’t. I hate that I can’t shake all these emotions that are tied up in her.

I never want to feel this shit again. Not the helplessness that came with watching her pull away, not the pain, nor this anger that is eating me up. I don’t know how I will ever trust anyone again.

That is why I would never date America. Not because she’s not beautiful and sexy and, well, we have a good time together. But because I don’t think I will ever shake Indy. God help me, I’m trying.

There’s one more coffee shop on this block, and I duck inside as the rain grows heavier. Shaking the drops off my umbrella under the awning, I shut it and deposit it in the tall bucket set out for that purpose.

Inside it’s warm and has that roasted bean aroma. It’s punctuated by fresh pastries, and my stomach grumbles about how it missed out on breakfast as I join the short queue to put in an order.

If I hadn’t ordered decaf all morning I would be in jittery disarray at this point. As it is, I’m tense and uncomfortable and in need of caffeine.

And America.

The headache that was slowly gaining traction with each wrong coffee shop melts away as I watch her serve a customer. She smiles easily at them, her gaze warm. The way she used to look at me when we were friends. The way she’ll look at me again when I fix things.

The way she looked at me last night had me burying myself deep inside her before I could stop to think about the repercussions.

I shove that imagery into my spank bank. America and I aren’t a thing. We will never be a thing. I just want my friend back.

She definitely does not smile at me when I finally make it to the counter. Her eyes widen and then narrow coolly.

Nerves that have nothing to do with caffeine take root. I’m glad I’ve found her though. I was about to go back to the hotel and regroup. Come up with a new way to scour the many coffee shops in the area. “Rica.”

A blue apron covers her button down and a teensy, tiny skirt. A cup with steam rising into the wordsBeans-A-Plentyis embroidered on the front. Her pretty mouth forms a pink slash that turns down in the corners. “What do you want, Gray?”

“Can we talk?”

“No.” She shakes her head. Her box braids, which are pulled into a thick ponytail, bounce, the bright beads woven into them clicking against each other with the movement. She stares past me at the next person. “Next please.”

“Hey. Hang on. I want to order,” I say.

Her hazel eyes swing back and lock on mine. “Okay. What will you have?”

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