Page 121 of Thirst For Me
I don’t.
He grunts. “Don’t expect me to be waiting around when you change your mind.”
“You should go.”
He stares at me for a moment longer. But when it’s clear that I have nothing else to say to him, he leaves with a final huff of incredulous laughter.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I exhale with relief.
Then I look around my apartment.
It’s never felt so small, so cold, so fucking empty.
My gaze locks on the two stuffed grocery bags on the counter. The ones with Kyle’s stuff in them.Shit.
I grab my keys and the bags, and fly out the door. Jab the elevator button. All the way down, I pray that I can catch him. So this is truly the last time I ever have to deal with him.
The little traffic loop in front of my building is lined with parked cars, and when I step outside, I see Kyle. A couple of cars down, door open, just about to get in.
“Kyle!”
He looks up and I jog over, bags held out.
“You forgot your things.”
He scowls. Takes the bags and stuffs them in his trunk. Then he skewers me with an expectant look. “That’s all you have to say?”
“Uh. Have a good life?”
He stares at me for a moment, apparently in total disbelief that I would actually let him go without some dramatic scene, begging him not to leave.
But I already did that once, which was more than enough.
He shakes his head and gets into his car. “Goodbye, Sierra.” He shuts the door and pulls out, taking off in his beloved Audi.
I watch it go, up the short drive to the stop sign. The tires squeal a little on the pavement as he disappears into traffic, and out of my life.
I take a deep breath. Let it out.
And my heart stops.
My gaze has locked on another man, standing across the street. In front of a parked black pickup truck with a golden apple on it, staring at me.
I blink, hesitant to trust my own eyes. He looks like a total vision in his dark-blue fitted T-shirt and jeans, with his sexy hair all a mess.
His gaze moves over me with hunger and regret.
I want to run to him, throw my arms around him.
But he also looks so out of place in front of my high-rise in downtown Vancouver, I don’t know whether to laugh or pinch myself.
I wander forward a couple of steps until I’m standing in the middle of the street.
“Mason,” I breathe. “Are you really here?”
He takes a few steps toward me, too.
“You’re here,” he says. “Where else would I be?”
