Page 47 of Not a Perfect Save

Connor’s hand pauses, he knows something is wrong. “Hey.”

I wrench away and sit up, keeping my back to him. “Be back in a few.” My voice is garbled.

“Ella,” he says.

At the edge of the bed, I realize all I have on is my thong. Fresh tears fill my eyes as I scan the room. The heinous dress is on the ground, halfway between me and the door. Shielding my breasts with a hand, I stagger over to retrieve it, then scurry, head bowed, to the bathroom, feeling Connor’s gaze linger on me the entire way.

I lock the door behind me and lean against the wood before sinking down to the floor. I draw my knees up to my chest and bury my head in my hands.

Who was that silly, shameless woman from last night?

It wasn’t me.

It won’t be me.

Who knows how long I sit there, but at some point, I manage to drag myself to the sink. I splash water on my face, trying to summon some sense of humanity. My reflection shows a wan, pale face staring back at me, complete with bloodshot eyes and puffy lips. Brown, wavy hair is a mass of knots. My appearance is completely at odds with the luxurious bathroom with its gleaming white fixtures and fluffy towels—not to mention the gazillion thread count sheets I passed out on.

I squeeze back into the awful, awful dress, but leave the zipper undone. There’s no more pretending I’m Cinderella. Can’t force things to fit.

Outside, Connor is in last night’s suit pants and shirt, not a single wrinkle in his clothes. He’s in the process of buckling his belt in front of the full-length mirror across from me.

He looks up and our eyes clash, those blue orbs searing my skin. Just like that first night. We shouldn’t have ended up there. We shouldn’t have ended up here.

Connor spins to me, concern flickering in his gaze. “Ella. Baby.”

He takes a step in my direction, but I hold my hands up to stop him from coming closer. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I was hoping to speak with you as well.”

“So last night…” Words stick in my windpipe.

“Last night?” Connor prompts.

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Hannah. She invited you?”

“She did.”

“Did you come because you felt sorry for me?” I have to ask. I don’t know what I’ll do if he says yes. String myself up by the sheets, maybe.

He looks at me for a long moment.

“It was more like I felt sorry for myself.” Connor’s expression is wary.

That makes me blink. “You?”

“Me.” He nods. “She said you were bringing a date.”

“Oh. I just said that because Hannah was being a burbitch.” For a second Connor’s lips twitch. My heart skips—just a tiny little hop.

But I force myself to go on. “Still. It shouldn’t have happened,” I say. “We—I—shouldn’t have…” I look at the mussed up bed, dying a little more on the inside.

“We didn’t have sex. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“No. I know we didn’t… I mean that last night—that wasn’t me. None of this has been me. It was all a mistake.”

Connor looks at me, uncomprehending. I try to explain.

“This shouldn’t have happened. None of it. The robbery. You, me, this…” I wave my hands at the foot-long gulf between us.

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