Page 3 of Miss Behaved
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I feel like I’m seeing another person standing in front of me. None of those are actual bases for a healthy relationship. Once more, it’s what he’s getting out of it.
What about me?
“Besides, it was just sex,” Steven says, like it’s a perfectly legitimate explanation. “Men have needs.”
The merry-go-round in my head speeds up. “Needs? I’ve been gone for two days.”
His face is sympathetic, but his shoulder shrugs in the slightest tic, and I realize he genuinely believes I should be understanding toward him. That if I’m not immediately available, he should be allowed to plow whoever is closest.
Suddenly, every puckered face I’ve seen from my friends makes sense. The rose-colored glasses slip off, and I see Steven for who he is. A tool.
I put my hands up between us. “This is over. Don’t chase me. Don’t call me. We’re done.”
His hand grazes my arm as I spin to leave, but he doesn’t land the grip.
I think I hear him yell he loves me as I grab my purse and slam the door in his face, but it doesn’t matter. No words will remove the image of him screwing his assistant from my head.
Kennedy and Luce were right. When am I going to learn to trust my friends’ instincts about the guys I date? They said he had this look about him, and I didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to see it.
But I had seen it, hadn’t I?
If I’m being honest with myself, his wandering eye wasn’t new. It was there from the beginning. It was there at every dinner, every passing ass in a short skirt. He lingered too long in handshakes with beautiful women. Worked late, coming home smelling like unfamiliar perfume. Then there was the red stain on his collar that didn’t have the same consistency as paint.
I’d seen it all along. My eyes fired deceptive signals to my brain.
Steven is another wrong guy on a growing list of ex-boyfriends. Because I know how to pick them, apparently. Nothing draws in a good girl like a bad boy, and I like the worst of them. Some masochistic thrill, I suppose.
I wait to break down until I’m safely in the elevator. Each floor sinks me back to reality. Each moment is another realization of how wrong I was when I walked through those doors tonight. Thinking he wanted more out of us, even if I wasn’t sure about it myself. After all, who walks into a proposal thinking about last names, outfits, and wondering if the man is actually their one true love?
I don’t want a love like moss, creeping slowly into my life until it coats every surface. I want the hurricane, the wind, the storm. I want love that shakes you up and consumes you.
The possibility of that ever happening is moving farther away by the minute. With every floor of Steven’s apartment building.
This wasn’t my happily ever after, just another crisis blowing up in my face. And I’m not sure how much more shrapnel my heart can handle.
2
Carson
Whydidn’tIchoosethe later flight? It’s too fucking early, and I want to go another round with Jessica—Jenny…something that starts with a J? Somewhere between my third beer and the shots of whiskey, I either forgot or never asked for her name.
I’ll just call her babe to avoid pissing her off. Win-win.
“Mornin’, babe,” I say, giving the back of her head a playful kiss before I roll out of bed.
A long arm reaches out for me but misses, and she lets out an annoyed groan. “You’re leaving?” she says. “It’s still dark out.”
She sweeps her messy raven hair out of her face and glares at me as I grab for my shirt and start buttoning it up.
“I told you, I’ve got an early flight.” I slide on my jeans and hope I’ve got enough time to get home and shower.
This seemed like a good idea last night, although I wasn’t thinking as much with one head as I was the other. Two drinks turned into five, and next thing I knew, we were in a car headed back to her place to finish the heavy petting that started on the dance floor.
If I miss my flight, Denise is going to kill me—not that I’d blame her. If I really want to shift directions in my career, I need to make some changes. And apparently that starts with the Hearts Edge Writers’ Retreat.
Barf.
I couldn’t care less about romance, tugging on stupid heartstrings, or happily ever afters. But ever since the mess that was my last novel crashed and burned off the best-seller list, when my agent says jump, I have to sayhow highif I want to keep my publisher from dropping me. So, when Denise booked me into this snooze fest writers’ retreat toexpand my horizons, there wasn’t much of a choice.
