Page 186 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
He takes the hint, thank God.
The chair groans under his weight as he pushes off it.
I close my eyes, and a few blazing tears slide down my cheeks, instantly turned to cold rain by the chill breeze sweeping past the building.
“Good night, Clee,” he says from behind me.
Then the door slides shut again and I’m alone in my desolation.
Holden Verity might have givenme the bed, but I wonder if he’ll ever give me a sound sleep again.
I must have blacked out once or twice. An hour here and there somewhere in the hazy, itchy hornet’s nest of my overloaded mind. I wake up with grit in my eyes and an exhaustion in my bones.
By the time I drag myself out of bed, I’m pissed and tired, deprived of his forest scent.
Everything about me feelsdeprived.
Even in a separate room behind a door I locked, I feel like he’s everywhere, and I can’t get enough of this terrible man-drug.
I drag my brush through my hair, gazing into a mirror that’s perched on the wall slightly too high to be comfortable, then throw on a blouse and pants I’ve packed for the occasion.
It only felt right to dress up a little, though there’s nothing to celebrate here.
Reluctantly, I open my door and walk into the living room, ready to face the most bittersweet day of my life.
Holden slept on the sofa, but there’s no sign of it now.
Master control freak. The sofa cushions are pinned back into place and they look more plush than they did when we got here.
From the expression on his face, I’m guessing sleep didn’t come easy. At least we’re still sharing one thing.
Awkwardness thickens the air between us, along with the smell of coffee. He must’ve ordered breakfast from that bakery down the block.
My stomach grumbles.
“Morning,” I say, creeping through the space like a ghost.
“Morning,” he echoes.
I scan his face again, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his face accented by a rough night. I bet I look just as rough.
There’s a level of sleep deprivation and sadness makeup can’t fix.
Standing in front of him feels like baring my soul.
So much left unsaid.
And I hate that he’ll be able to read every inch of heartache on my face just like I’m reading his.
God.
He nods at the paper coffee cup on the table, steam winding through the sippy hole at the top. “Got you some coffee. Cinnamon roll latte. Disgustingly sweet and had your name all over it.”
How kind.
I don’t say it, though. That would come too close to plunging back into feelings lined with razors.
I just nod gratefully and grab my coffee, then throw myself into the chair opposite him. It’s a good drink, just not lovely enough to take the edge off.
