Page 42 of Pucking Dirty

My dad just stands there, staring at me like he's never seen me before.

"Please, let me explain," I whisper.

"Go home, Emilia," he says. "We've got a plane to catch."

"Dad, please."

"Go home." He turns on his heel and stalks away, leaving me standing in the parking lot by myself, staring after him, certain I broke three hearts today. And only one of us deserved it: me.

I'm not even sure if I'm welcome at Nash's place anymore, but I go there anyway. I fall into his bed, clinging to his pillow like that'll hold me together.

It doesn't.

I cry until I can't breathe. And then I pull out my phone, texting him with shaking hands.

Me: I'm so sorry. Please, talk to me.

When he doesn't respond, I cry some more.

I've been so fucking afraid of losing him, of being the one who ruins his career, and then I pushed him right out the door anyway. All because I'm a coward.

He deserves so much more.

Why couldn't I speak up for once? Why couldn't I stand up, just once, and tell my dad that I made my choice, and my choice is Nash?

Because, on some level, I'm still that little girl afraid to disappoint the man who gave up everything for her. I think in some ways, I always will be her, clinging to my dad because he stayed, because he loved me enough to stay.

But she can't rule anymore, not when entire tracts of my heart belong to someone else. Not when my whole damn soul is tied to a man who would walk through fire for me. My father did what he did because he was my father. That's what a parent is supposed to do—choose you. Love you enough to choose you no matter what.

But Nash? He'd choose me simply because he's mine. Because, even if he hasn't said it, he loves me. Not because he has to love me, not because it's his job, but because he feels the same undeniable pull I do.

That man is crazy about me.

And I feel the exact same way about him.

He deserves for the whole fucking world to know it.

If the choice is my dad or Nash…there is no choice.

It's Nash. It'll always be Nash.

I dry my eyes, take a deep breath, and then text Alice, praying I'm not too late to fix this.

Me: I need a favor.

Alice: What's up?

Me: Can you call?

My phone rings not even two seconds later.

"What's up?" she asks. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Long story," I say, crawling from the bed to throw my stuff into an overnight bag, determination fueling every step.

"Are you crying?"

"Not at the moment."

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