Page 53 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

I let out a growl of frustration and pace across the room. I feel trapped. Caged. Because I want to give her everything, and yet I have nothing left. I’m dried up, hollowed out. I’m so angry and sad and I don’t want to poison her with it.

“I know last night really shook you up,” she says quietly. “But you’re turning one bad night into... You haven’t failed her, Rowan.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that.” So swift. So sudden.

One day your life is happy and normal and then the next...

It’s all gone.

“No, I don’t. But I do know what it’s like to stifle a passion, thinking you can’t make it work. It’s painful. It eats away at you.” She comes forward, still trying to reach out. Still trying to connect.

I don’t deserve her persistence. And she doesn’t deserve my bullshit.

“I can’t afford passion when I have responsibilities,” I say. “This last month I’ve been distracted, I’ve been turning away from my business and last night was the wake-up call I clearly needed. I can’t risk losing my focus.”

“So what...your whole life mustonlybe about work?”

I have to stand my ground now, because inside I’m a wreck. I’m a mess. And I need to put it all back together. I need to focus on the gallery, and forget about painting. Forget about what I wanted before. Before doesn’t matter.

“I want my life to be about my work,” I reply stubbornly.

“Really?” Emery looks at me like she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Because all I hear are words likeriskandresponsibilityandhonourandmemory. None of those things sound like they have anything to do with what you want.”

“How did I start off being some irresponsible party boy in your eyes and now I’m this? That’s a big turn around.”

“Because I looked closer, Rowan. Igotcloser. And now I know what’s underneath that sexy smile and those tailored suits and that cheeky glint in your eye.” She shakes her head. “You’re hurting and you won’t let anyone help you. You’re punishing yourself, but I have no idea why.”

Because I wasn’t there to save her.

The words rush up so fast I almost stumble backward. I’ve never blamed myself before—I’d always blamed my father. Blamed my mother’s own stubbornness. Blamed the installation guys for letting her get too involved. Fuck, I even blamed the manufacturing company who made the ladder.

But deep,deepdown... I blame myself.

The day she died, I was in my studio, painting. She’d asked me to come and help her, and I told her I needed to finish a piece I was working on for a commission. I was painting when she died.

I chose my art over her.

The cavity in my chest splits even wider and the emotion rips through me.

“Because I deserve it.” I rake a hand through my hair, my mind spinning like a top. “I’m sorry, Emery. I’m not suddenly going to turn into a prince. You can’t wave a magic wand and make this go away.”

“I don’t want a prince,” she whispers. “I want you.”

Looking at her is breaking me all over again—her dark eyes shimmer and she’s so sincere it’s like trying to stare into the sun. She’s pulled in all of her spikes, leaving herself open. Vulnerable.

And I’m going to hurt her.

“You can’t have me.” I shake my head. “And this clearly became more than either of us bargained for, so I think it’s best if we go our separate ways until the show. Dom can be your contact from now on.”

Each word is like taking a razor blade to my throat. It carves me up inside to watch the flare of her nostrils and the slight quiver in her lip and to witness the moment those soft, lovely eyes turn hard.

“Fine,” she says, holding her shoulders back and looking at me without wavering, like the strong, confident woman she is. “But know this isn’t what I want. Not at all.”

She walks past me to the door and the second she’s gone, it feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. It’s over.We’reover.

And it hurts like hell.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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