Page 104 of Take Hold of Me

I sigh, wiping my frustrated tears away from my cheeks. I need to get a grip on my emotions. Wills never cries. I cannot be an emotional wreck.

We turn into his apartment complex. I try to swallow over the lump in my throat but end up coughing.

“Are you alright back there, Miss Dubois?”

I suppress my coughs long enough to answer in the affirmative. I am fine—nothing Wills cannot cure. I hope.

The car comes to a halt. “We’re here.”

The door to the apartment building looks exactly the same as the last time I saw it. Only last time, it was open and inviting me inside. This time, it is locked, sending the message that I am an outsider. What did I expect? Him to rush out and greet me? “Merci.” Out of an abundance of caution, I ask him to wait for me.

“Very good.”

The driver opens his door and, within seconds, mine opens. It is now or never. I accept his hand as I exit the car and grab my purse. Squaring my shoulders, I march over to the intercom, my professional mask firmly in place.

I raise my chin. Wills will let me in. He has to. I press 3G.

“Yes?”

My eyes close, as the sound of his voice enters my ears. All of the butterflies fly out of my body along with my sigh of relief. This will be okay. “Wills, it is me. Let me in,s’il vous plaît.”

Silence.

Then the buzzer sounds and I race through the front door. I press the call button for the elevator but have too much energy to wait for it to come, so I bound up the three flights of stairs. Just like the first time I saw his flat.

I push the door open. Wills stands with his back to the sliding door to the balcony, waiting. He wears gray workout shorts and a Complete t-shirt. His face is blank, showing no emotion at all.

“Wills?”

“Hi.” His voice is flat.

My body tenses and my bottom lip ends up between my teeth. “I texted you at least a dozen times and left you voicemails. Why did you not respond to me?”

“I had a busy evening.”

“How did it go at the police station?”

His jaw tenses. “Why are you here, Emilie?”

Emilie. Not “Ems.” Not “Angel.” I run my hand through my hair. Crossing the room to stand next to him, I start with the truth. “I was worried about you.” I hug him, but his arms remain at his sides.

I step back. “What is wrong? Are you in some sort of trouble? I told the police—”

“I’m fine.” He walks around me, toward the kitchen.

“Wills!” My voice hitches. “Why are you treating me like this? What is wrong? Talk to me.”

Turning, his blue eyes—now a dark, stormy shade—rake me up and down. “Emilie.” He rubs his cheek, his bruised knuckles in relief. “I had a long night, but it’s over now.” He pauses. “It’s all over now.”

Why does it sound as if he is no longer talking about his night, but about us? I shake my head. “I do not understand. Explain it to me.”

“Your life is very different from mine. You don’t live in the real world. You will never understand.”

My breath stops. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you need to stay with the pretty people who live for the paparazzi. And I, clearly, don’t fit the mold.”

“But, I am not like that. You know me,” I manage to get out, holding the tears at bay. Barely. I rush to him and reach out for his hand.

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