Page 15 of Where We Bloom

“I can pay for the tow truck, Connor.”

“I said no.” I sigh and push my glasses up my nose. Christ, I love her sassy mouth, but I also miss that sweet side of her from that first night. I wish she’d smile at me. When she smiled, laughed, gasped, moaned, she lit up my whole world.

But she doesn’t smile. She’s scowling.

“You want to put your hands on me and make me lose my mind, but that’s it. Then you walk away like I’m a stranger, and you’re so fucking cold. I just deserve more respect than what you’ve been handing out.”

She’s not wrong. And I don’t deserve those smiles anymore.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I nod and turn to walk back to the SUV, but she calls out my name.

I fucking love it when she says my name.

“Connor?”

I turn and raise an eyebrow.

“Thank you.” Her voice is softer, and those delicious lips lift in a small smile. “I appreciate your help.”

“You’re welcome,” I repeat, gentler this time. I shove my hands in my pockets and make myself walk to the car before I beg her to forgive me and let me have her in my life.

I can’t do that to her.

It wouldn’t be fair.

Chapter Three

BILLIE

I’ll never sleep tonight. Not after sleeping on the drive home. I can’t believe I did that. When I told Connor I was going to nap, I’d planned to just close my eyes and pretend to sleep so I didn’t have to talk to him and humiliate myself more.

I can’t believe that I sat in that car and told abillionaireall about my used-clothes habit. Sure, they’re luxury brands, but I explained it to him as if he doesn’t know what Dior is.

I’m pretty sure his white button-down cost more than all the clothes I bought combined.

Not to mention, his sister, Skyla, wore a couture Dior gown to a benefit earlier this year. He didn’t need me to give him a lecture on ready-to-wear clothes from fashion houses, and the sad state of fast fashion in our society.

Although, I really do love everything I bought today, and I enjoyed talking about it.

“I’ll just unpack it all and hang it up and forget about my stupid fashion lecture to the billionaire,” I grumble as I drag one of the totes into the primary bedroom. This house used to have four bedrooms, but I converted the smallest one, which happens to be next to the primary bedroom, into a beautiful closet and dressing room. I did it all myself with a closet kit that I ordered online.

Okay, I didn’t do itallmyself. My brothers helped.

I painted the walls in a soft blue, the floor is hardwood, and the lighting is specifically designed to perfectly showcase my racks, shelves, and the area in front of the mirror so I can see myself well while dressing.

My clothes are hanging, organized by color. On the left are work and dressy clothes. On the right are casual ensembles. And in the middle is an island dresser where I house all of my pretty unmentionables and pajamas. I saved one drawer for jewelry.

One by one, I pull out each garment from the tote, shake it out, and hang it up, replaying the conversation in the car earlier.

Not only did I go on about the clothes, butthenI humiliated myself more by basically whining about the fact that he didn’t want me. For the love of all that’s holy, I should have just launched myself out of the vehicle. Road rash would be more comfortable than this horrible embarrassment I feel. I should have just told him thisisthe real me and left it at that, but no. I had to rant and rave about myfeelings, and that’s so mortifying.

But when I fell asleep, he pulled me against him,which was an unexpected surprise. He was warm and hard, and I’m fairly certain there were times when I woke up enough to feel him kissing my hair or brushing his fingers up and down my arm.

There are moments when he looks at me, or during those moments when I slept against him, that I feel like he wants to be tender. He wants to talk or just be near me, and it’s not simply sexual. But he holds himself back, and it makes me want to scream.

I hang a Chanel scarf and sigh.

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