Page 23 of Backlash

“That’s unnecessary,” I back up a few steps, hoping he doesn’t follow me. “Thank you.”

“Once you’re settled, perhaps we could have dinner,” he suggests before I can make a clean getaway.

“Um, sure.” I have no idea why I agree, even superficially.

“To acquaint you you with our services,” he adds, reading the skepticism on my face. “As one of the Eaton’s oldest patrons, it’s the least we can do to welcome you.”

“That will be nice.” I force myself to say. Something occurs to me then. Mr. Randolph has always been the type to show up at the table when my family is dining at the hotel restaurant. He’s present for every function we’ve attended in the hotel ballroom. He’s got an over-inflated sense of self-importance and a serious obsession with being close to the wealthy elite of Nashville. That means he might remember why my father bought the apartment in the first place. “Do you know how long the apartment has been in my family?”

“I don’t recall,” he says. “But I’ll look into it and we can discuss it over dinner.”

“Of course.” And like anyone who spends their time worming into the upper rungs of society, he knows he needs to be important to stay there. He’s not going to tell me anything until he gets his reward. That’s a problem for another day.

“Well, I better head back. I have a lot to sort through.”

Like years of emotional baggage.

“Do call down if you need help,” he says. “I’ll make sure someone gets you the proper tool for the job.”

“Thanks.” I can’t say I like the sound of that. Mr. Randolph must see me as another way to get in with the Valmont crowd. I’m just another heiress in his eyes. If he only knew. It’s not as though I’m too helpless to jimmy open a locked drawer. I learned the fine art of getting past a lock in my early teens, back when my parents bothered to lock up the booze. My mother’s idea. My father, like most of the other Valmont parents, could have cared less about what me or my brother was doing with their friends. I’ll get dressed, go to the store, and get one along with some basics: a change of clothes, toiletries, a toothbrush. At least then I can avoid returning to Windfall for a few days.

Chances are that I don’t even need a stupid screwdriver to open the drawer. I’m brainstorming other ways to get the drawer open as I step off the elevator, and my focus is so intense I don’t even see him.

“Got somewhere to be, Lucky?” Sterling’s voice rushes over me like a surge of cold water, sending chills dancing along my spine. It’s not the effect he usually has on me, but it’s no less dizzying.

It takes effort to face him, especially since I’m in a robe and tennis shoes with no socks. Oh, and because the last time he saw me I was sprawled naked on his bed. There’s that, too. “What are you doing here?”

“I think that’s my line.” He moves toward me and I move backward instinctively. Sterling stops, a frown marring his perfect face. “We need to talk.”

I can’t help snorting. People in couple’s counseling need to talk. Friends need to talk. Whatever we are? It requires more than talking. We need to scream. We need to throw shit. At least, I do. But I settle for agreeing with him. “Yes, we do.”

“Those texts aren’t what you think,” he begins.

That’s how he’s going to play it? No way. “Did someone named Sutton call me a bitch?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did she beg you to come home to her?” I can hardly blame her for calling me a bitch. I am a bitch, and I’m damn proud of the fact. It’s his part in this that bothers me.

“You don’t understand—”

“Did you say loved her?” My voice cracks on this last question.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he’s getting a headache. “I did, but I had a good reason.”

Tears smart my eyes and I whirl away from him. There’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. He doesn’t deserve my tears, but that’s the thing about a broken heart, the person that deserves it is never the one who gets theirs broken. “I don’t think I need to hear an explanation. I think the message was pretty clear. You can’t explain saying I love you to another woman.”

“If you think that, that proves how wrong you are.” Strong hands grip my wrist and he spins me toward him before I can pull away. “I can explain.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” I yank myself free and cross my arms over my chest. Pasting on my best poker face, I do my best to look unimpressed even though I can’t ignore the tingling that lingers where he touched me. I can’t trust myself around him any more than I can trust him. That much is clear.

Then he drops a bomb on me.

“Sutton is my sister.”

“Oh.” That explains the I love you. I’ve spent the last few hours planning exactly what I would say to him the next time I saw him. I didn’t prepare for the possibility he’d have a reasonable explanation.

“You did remember that I have a sister, right?” he asks, a smirk tugging up the corners of his mouth.