Page 114 of The Billionaire Is Back

Claire doesn’t look like she’s winning this argument either. No one is. My hesitation is obviously the answer she didn’t want, but it was what she needed.

“Baby…”

“I’m not asking you to care less about your work. I know that’s not possible for you. I’m asking you to go.” Her voice cracks at the end, and the tears are pouring down her sad, pretty face now.

“Claire.”

“I’ll stay at my parents’ house. Just go. Please.” She stands up and goes to the front door, but it’s like she’s walking through water. She opens the door and stares at the floor when she says, “We’re closed.”

Gutted and destroyed, I get up to meet her in the doorway. I didn’t win every race I ran in school, I haven’t won every business deal, but this is the only time I’ve felt true defeat. But it can’t be over. It can’t be. There’s no streak of flour on her face, only tears, and I reach out to wipe them away with my thumb, but she pulls back.

She makes a sad little hiccup sound and drags theback of her hand under her nose, but she still won’t look at me.

“I’ll go if that’s what you really want. But I’m not leaving you, Claire.” I step outside. The air is warm, but I get a chill down my spine when I hear her lock the door behind me.

Chapter 31

Un-Bake My Heart

Claire

“Two ordersof Sex on the Beach from the guys who look like the kind of idiots my ex-husband used to hang out with,” our server mutters as she slides two orange and peach–colored drinks with fruit spears onto our table.

“Oh, that’s so sweet. Thank you, Darlene!” I still have my glass of chardonnay in one hand while bringing the cocktail in closer, unsuccessfully trying to guide the wandering big red straw into my gaping mouth. “Thanks, fellas!” I call out to the douchey-looking tourist dudes at the bar.

They raise their glasses and start heading over to our booth. They don’t seem at all turned off by the fact that a slice of orange just bonked the end of my nose. Maybe they’re actually buying this Living My Best Life bullshit act I’ve been trying to sell to everyone including myself for the past half hour.

“Oh no,” I stage-whisper to Vera. “They’re coming over. Hide.”

Vera turns to the guys and holds up her hand, stopping them in their tracks. “Hey, what are we—twelve? Do we look like we drink peach schnapps if we don’t have to sneak it from our parents’ liquor cabinet? Stay where you are. Thank you and good night.”

Dejected, they return to their stools. Their butts are flat as pancakes. No one, and I mean no man on earth, has a butt like Grady Barber.

Now I want to cry. “We don’t have to give the drinks back, do we?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Claire Bear.”

I almost burst into tears in response to that. Because what I don’t want to do is die alone. Specifically, I don’t want to die without Grady. But I also don’t want to live without him even though I am quite certain it will be easier to live without him all the time than to live without him some or most of the time. But I really don’t want to never see or touch Grady’s butt ever again.

“This is so fun, right?!” I exclaim, very convincingly, to my best friend. She is really and truly behaving like the world’s best best friend again. “You and me! Out on the town! Yay!”

I’m crying from my nostrils a little, but in a really fun way.

“Sure, honey.” Vera slides the second glass of Sex on the Beach over to me and holds up a napkin. I lean in so she can reach my nose. “This is great.”

The Hair of the Sea Dog is dead tonight, but that is perfect because I am dead inside.

My lips finally make contact with the stupid straw, and I swallow so much delicious Sex on the Beach. It’s delicious, and I hate it because now I’m never going to have sex with Grady on the beach and that is all my fault. “Are we drunk enough? I don’t think we’re drunk enough. Should we dance?” I think there’s music playing over the house speakers, but all I hear is “It Must Have Been Love” by Roxette and the sound of my heart breaking. That dumb, whiny bitch. My heart, not Roxette. I gulp down the rest of my wine and then reach for Vera’s hand. “Let’s dance!”

She remains seated, giving my hand a squeeze. “Bob Dylan’s not my favorite artist to dance to. Let’s talk.”

“Yeah! Let’s talk about your hair. What do you call that color—is that maroon? Burgundy? It’s so beautiful. How long has it been like that?”

She exhales loudly. “About a week.”

“What? Really?”

“He really hasn’t called? He hasn’t sent you one text, even?”

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