Page 36 of Glitter Rose
“Paris.” He eases me off his lap like I’m made of glass. Or explosives. “We can’t.”
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs. “What?”
“This isn’t…” He releases me, shifting away. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far.”
Heat floods my face, different from before. Humiliation. Pure embarrassment burns through the wine haze, sharp and sobering. “Oh.”
“It’s not that I don’t want—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “Fuck, Paris, you’re?—”
“No, it’s fine.” I stand too quickly, swaying slightly. “I totally misread the situation. God, I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.” He reaches for me, but I step back.
“You just told me about your fiancée, and I’m throwing myself at you.” My voice rises, words tumbling out. “What’s wrong with me? First man I see in a year and I’m acting like a horny bitch. I’m sorry.”
“Paris, please?—”
“I need to…” I gesture vaguely toward my bedroom, backing away. “Goodnight.”
I flee before he can respond, bare feet silent on the Persian rug as I escape. The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels too final.
Footsteps approach. I hold my breath, pressing my forehead against the cool wood, waiting for a knock, for my name, for anything.
The footsteps pause, then retreat.
Stupid, Paris.
A single tear slides down my cheek, hot and unwelcome. I wipe it away angrily, hating the weakness, hating myself for destroying whatever tentative friendship we’d built.
“I’m lucky if he’s still here tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty room, the words tasting like ash and expensive wine.
Morning light slices through the gap in my curtains, harsh and unforgiving. I’ve been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing casual lines that don’t sound pathetic.
Hey Knox, coffee? No. Morning, sleep well? Definitely not. I just settle on saying nothing at all, and I dress inmy most loungy clothes, no hint of last night’s attempt at seduction.
What was I thinking?
I hammer my fists against the mattress before taking a deep breath and making myself ready for the day.
In the kitchen, the porridge bubbles on the portable stove, thick and gloopy. I stir it, focusing on the hypnotic swirls rather than the footsteps approaching from behind.
“Morning.” Knox’s voice, gravelly with sleep, sends a shiver down my spine that I ruthlessly suppress.
“Breakfast’s almost ready.” I don’t turn around, my attention fixed on measuring honey into the porridge. “Hope you like it boring. No cinnamon left.”
“Boring’s fine.” He moves to the cabinet, retrieving bowls.
The domestic familiarity of it twists my heart. I ladle the porridge into the bowls he sets beside me. I can do this. I can be normal. The worst thing would be for him to pity me.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, and I nearly drop the ladle.
“Fine. You?”
“Not really.”
I risk a glance at him. He looks tired, with dark circles shadowing his eyes and his hair sticking up at odd angles. Still unfairly attractive. Damn him.
“Well, eat up.” I scoot a bowl toward him. “Doctor’s orders.”
