Page 125 of A Temporary Forever

“He was directing me.”

“You flinched.” It comes out like an accusation.

“You couldn’t have seen that.”

She steps away from the door, but also away from me. Turning her back to me, she faces the mirror and starts doing something with things on the vanity. Something that looks a lot like busy work to avoid me.

“Look at me, Celeste.”

She keeps reorganizing the chaos in front of her. Grabbing a long bottle, she sprays around her head. Her hand circles around furiously and she misses most of her hair, the abusive mist hitting my lungs.

I clear my throat and demand, “Look at me and tell me his touch was innocent.”

She flicks her gaze up, meeting mine in the mirror.Instead of an answer, she glares at me, like I’m the villain here.

But she can’t admit he touched her as a part of his work. Because I might have overreacted, but there was more behind his touch.

“That’s what I thought.” I scoff. “Isn’t it enough you flaunt yourself half-naked in front of the audience several times a week? I don’t need to watch some fucker groping you.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She doesn’t turn, but her gaze cools. She lifts her chin. “Get out of here.”

A frustrated growl lodges in my throat. I hang my head for a moment, but then I find her gaze again. “Celeste, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to say, and I didn’t mean it.”

She laughs. “Didn’t you? Like father, like son.” She delivers the words with confidence, but her lips tremble, at odds with her determination.

If she kicked me in my balls, it would’ve hurt less. She looks down, and I consider leaving, to shield myself from the influx of feelings.

Feelings I don’t want to name. Some of them undiscovered and scary. Some of them just plain nasty.

Celeste turns to face me now. Her hair dislodgesfrom the twist at the back of her head, and a sleek ponytail springs around, landing on her shoulder.

She’s still put together and made up as always, but the bouncing tresses make her look more real. Almost exposed.

“I hate jealousy,” she whispers.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to be jealous if… Never mind.”

The coward in me roars its ugly head like it always does when a sign of commitment wafts my way. Goddammit.

How the fuck did we get here? I came today to take her out after her rehearsal and talk.

I wanted to tell her how this faux marriage has grown on me.

How I enjoy her company.

How she flipped my world upside down, showing me that not every relationship needs to be rotten. A transaction.

That I’ve never needed anything from anyone, and now I need her around. I still don’t want anything from her, but I want to give her what she needs, what she wants, what makes her happy.

But I don’t get to say any of those things, because somewhere between me entering the darkness of the theater and this painful moment, we unearthed something ugly and confusing.

“If what?”

“If you were truly mine,” I bark.

“That’s rich, coming from someone who can’t even take me to his bed.”

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