Page 134 of The Playboy

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Except, from the way it looks to me, you gave zero shits that you were lying to me. You didn’t even attempt to tell me, aside from last night, which could be another lie—I’ll never know.”

She shook her head. “No, I was going to tell you, I swear. I wouldn’t lie about that—”

“You mean, lie again.”

“Macon …” Her eyes were pleading with me, and so was her voice. “I’m not lying when I say that—”

“Now, let’s talk about your other lie.” My fingers clenched into a fist. “The one on your résumé. Look me in the face and tell me that position wasn’t real.”

She took a deep breath. “The restaurant that’s listed is the one my sisters work at. I used Jesse as a reference and changed her last name so if she was called by HR—and she was—it wouldn’t look suspicious.” She held her hand out toward me, but this time, it wasn’t to make me stop; her fingers were outstretched instead. “I couldn’t risk having you find out that way. When you heard the truth about my employment, you needed to hear it from me.”

Except I hadn’t heard it from her.

I’d uncovered it because she came in to clean my room and I was accidentally home.

She had been forced to tell me because she was in a goddamn housekeeping uniform and wedged my door open while her cart sat outside.

And now … I’d heard enough.

I let the towel fall as I went into the closet, grabbing a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and pulling both onto my body before I walked through the bedroom.

I was just passing her when she said, “Where are you going?”

I heard her behind me, following me to the living room. With my back to her, I picked up my phone and key card from the table.

“To the bar.”

“Right now? In the middle of this?”

I turned toward her, wishing I hadn’t seen her expression. The one that was filled with so much remorse. The one that appeared like she would do anything to make this better.

“I’ll be back after I clear my fucking head.”

I let the door slam on my way and stared at the screen of my cell as I got into the elevator, scrolling through my Contacts, deciding what the fuck I should do.

Did I throw my phone on the ground, letting it shatter to pieces?

Did I call someone?

Did I try to work this out on my own?

The door opened to the lobby, and I saw the bar and how packed it was.

I had no interest in going there, downing booze that wouldn’t solve any of these problems, having to people when I’d rather be alone.

I headed outside instead, the pool deck almost empty, and I took a seat in one of the lounge chairs.

Fucking Brooklyn.

I couldn’t believe she’d done this. I couldn’t believe she’d put us in this situation.

That she hadn’t cared enough to be honest with me.

That, for some reason, she hadn’t thought I could handle it.

That I wouldn’t approve, that I wouldn’t want to be with her—I didn’t even know whatever her goddamn reasoning was at this point.

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