Page 56 of Dolls & Daggers
Because this is getting too real, too fast.
This argument makes me want to throw up my tofu veggie stir-fry. I hate the thought of Wren being upset with me. I hate that he feels like I’m silencing him.
But I won’t give myself up just to make him happy.
“Nice, Dove. Keep being a bitch.”
“Only to you, Songbird.” I flutter my lashes, flashing him a sardonic smile.
Wren stares at me for a long moment. So long that the tears threatening to surface nearly prick my lashes. He’s searching my face for a white flag.
All he’ll find is an enforced wall and a fuck ton of bombs.
I don’t know why I thought we could have a relationship. There are too many secrets between us. Too much horror and pain.
And I don’t want to emasculate Wren, but I’m not sure he can handle the truth.
I do what I do for a reason.
The Doll has a purpose.
I can’t let anything change that.
Not even the man I might be falling in love with.
I don’t knowwhat I’m doing anymore.
The days blur together, bleeding into the weekend without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment from the woman I’m dangerously close to falling for. Things return to how they were—work rivals at each other’s throats—except now, I’m also getting the silent treatment.
On Wednesday, I wait outside her office for her to finish a call. It drags on longer than it should, and I have to abandon my attempt at a white flag or risk standing up a source for a piece I’m working on. Thursday, I take her last yogurt in full view of our coworkers, waiting for her to storm over and berate me for stealing her snacks. But she never does. Today, she ignores me completely when I step into her office and ask if we can have dinner.
No ghost of a smile. No smartass quip about me caving first. Just silence. Dove stares at her computer screen, her pink sparkly nails catching the light as her fingers tap steadily on her keyboard as if I’m not even there.
I let my gaze drift across the space, moving toward where she keeps her things. She’s focused enough not to notice when I lean against the ledge where her small purse sits, slipping a tracking device onto the back of a pink Zippo she hasn’t used since we became serious—because she knows how I feel about her smoking.
The point of writing about the Doll was to get close to her. I wanted her attention, her time. I crossed the country in hopes that my public praise would get her to notice me.
I wanted a relationship with her—to get an exclusive look into her beautifully fucked-up mind and convince her to bare her soul to a lowly man who could only hope to hold her interest beyond one lucky evening.
To my absolute, utter luck, I got more than that. At least, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure I did.
And I really don’t want to fuck that up.
“Are you seriously not going to speak to me?” I turn back around, but her attention remains fixed, her posture indifferent.
Ididcall her a bitch. I suppose I deserve this.
I’llget on my knees and beg for forgiveness if she lets me.
“Dove,” I sigh, moving to stand beside her. “I’m sorry.”
The clicking of the keys falters. Encouraged, I push forward. “You were right. I shouldn’t have barged in and expected anything to be handed to me. Hell, I shouldn’t have even assumed I’d get the opportunity to write about the Doll. It was presumptuous. Sexist. And I’m sorry. I understand where you’re coming from, and I don’t want to fight with you.”
“We aren’t fighting, Songbird.” She resumes typing, her voice light, airy—completely devoid of anger or concession. “We just aren’t fucking.”
I don’t point out that we haven’t actually fucked yet.
We’ve done a lot of things. But anytime we get close to the actual act, Dove pulls away like a not-so-virginal virgin convinced God will smite her if she puts a P in her V before marriage.
