Page 59 of Fauxmance in the City

“I don’t know what I want,” he rasps, his gaze locking with mine, resolution in his eyes. “But it’s not this.”

fifteen

I slam into the master bedroom and kick the door shut, circling the room, working off the fury burning me up. Sam doesn’t want me, and that should be a good thing, so what the hell has gotten into me? I’ve always been cool under pressure. Emotions are easy to tame—if they pop up, push them down.

I don’t want to have all these feelings for Sam. Love is a minefield of hurt and humiliation, which I’ve avoided since Christophe blew my trust apart. I’ve never had closure. I was afraid to contact him and ask why he never filed for divorce. Right after he left, I held onto the hope that he’d come back one day.

Eventually, that hope faded into a warped sense of comfort knowing he’d never remarried.

All that changed when that manila envelope arrived with divorce papers. Included with it was a smaller white envelope with a letter inside. My name was scribbled on it in Christophe’s scratchy handwriting. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. It’s in my purse. It’s been there since I received it. Unread.

I sink to the floor. Once I sign the papers, that chapter of my life will be over. It’s unreasonable that it should scare me this much. Christophe has been gone for almost seven years. There’s very little information about him online. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time seeking him out. The only thing I know is he lives in San Francisco and works in tech. Which is how he’s probably able to keep his online footprint to a minimum.

I drag my purse by its strap into my lap and stare at it. I suck down air, pulling in oxygen that doesn’t fill my lungs.

There’s a knock on the door of the bedroom. I throw my purse across the room and grip the short piling of the rug to anchor me.

“Catie.” Sam’s voice is low and urgent. “Open the door. We’re not done talking.”

“It’s open,” I gasp.

Sam marches in, but the steam goes out of him when he sees me broken on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Sam sinks to his knees in front of me.

The edges of the room blur, and I’m vaguely aware of Sam pulling me into his lap. He’s speaking to me, but it’s muffled and far away.

My forehead falls into his chest, and there’s counting. I don’t know if it’s in my head or if he’s whispering in my ear.

One, two, three. Breathe. One, two, three. Breathe. One, two, three…

The wheezing tapers off and my heart rate returns to a normal beat.

“Keep breathing,” Sam says, and I take a deep breath in and out.

My fists grip his shirt, wanting to get as close as possible to his strength, and Sam’s muscles tighten under my hands.

“Did I cause this?” he asks.

“Christophe.” My breath saturates his shirt, warming the material against my lips. “He’s getting married. At least, I think he is.”

Sam lifts my chin. “What he did to you is not okay, but it’s in the past. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

My eyes close, and I rest my cheek on his sturdy chest. His arms circle me, and he grips me to him as if I’ll float away if he lets go.

“You did nothing wrong. Don’t ever question that. You deserve—” Sam halts, his heart thundering against my ear. “You deserve better than the way that asshole treated you.”

He holds me tighter, urging me to hear his words, to make me understand I am worthy of love from someone honest and good. Moments ago, he was righteously telling me off; now he offers me comfort and a caring heart.

I peel myself off him, a chill running over my skin where his body touched mine. I can’t take this Jekyll and Hyde relationship. Sam isn’t trying to hurt me, but when he looks at me like this—like he wants to devour me after years of starvation—it feels like a four-letter word. But which one?

“I don’t want to fight anymore.” I breathe into his neck, the pulse at the base of his throat pumping wildly.

He scoops me up and stands, carrying me to the sofa and depositing me there. The strap of my dress falls down my shoulder, and the fabric folds, exposing my right breast. Sam’s gaze focuses on the pink nipple forming into a pebble in the cool air.

We stay there in limbo for a moment—him gazing down at my breast, my gaze on him—but then he breaks it and walks to the window, his fingers strangling the ledge.

“I’m tired of it, too, Catie,” he says, shaking his head.

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