And my eyes can’t help but wander over his body as he speaks to Giselle, directing her and the construction manager, Dale, with precise detail.
When his arm lifts to point, I take in the definition of his forearm, the indent on the inside of his biceps, the shapeliness of his shoulder and how it used to feel wrapped warmly around me, cocooning me into his body.
When he speaks, I close my eyes as I listen to the deep baritone of his voice floating around me like a warm hug, remembering all the times he would gently whisper into my ear when he was deep inside of me.
And when he stands there, listening intently to everyone present at the meeting, I can’t help but stare at the dark scruff that lines his jaw—the same scruff that left delicious beard burns up and down my legs—or the way his backward hat seems to intensify his eyes somehow, lending them the same fire that would smolder in them whenever I walked into a room.
It’s been one week, but every time I look at him, my heart feels like it’s being ripped out all over again.
That night . . . I don’t think I’ve ever cried as hard as I did after he left. I fled to my apartment, locked myself in my room, and buried my head in my pillow. The grief, the anger, the confusion—all of them poured out of me at once. The next day when Eric took in my appearance and asked if I was okay, I just nodded and told him the spring allergies were getting me. I don’t think he believed it, but he didn’t ask any other questions.
Every night after that, I’ve done the same thing: I’ve gone straight from work to the apartment, barricading myself in my room and insisting to Eric that I need privacy to study—though I have yet to open a textbook since Reid broke things off.
And Reid thinks this is for the better? Maybe for him. In a cruel twist of fate, he actually looks hotter, seems more confident, and exudes nothing but excitement as he checks over every last detail of the restaurant.
Then there’s me, the walking dead. I’m pretty sure I have mascara on only one eye today, I can’t remember the last time I brushed my hair, and I know for damn sure that my socks don’t match. This breakup most definitely hasn’t made my life any easier.
And the loss is starting to eat away at me. At my confidence, at my energy, at my ability to focus—hence why I can’t take my eyes off his pecs right now.
“What do you think, Eve?” Eric asks, snapping me to attention.
“Um, yeah, great,” I answer, not quite sure what the hell we’re talking about.
“Then we all agree,” Reid says. “I look forward to seeing how it all turns out.” He glances at his watch. “Have a shift at the Landing. Got to go. I’ll catch you two later.” He gives us a quick wave, and just to be an ass, I flutter my fingers at him. I’m tempted to toss him a middle finger as well but hold back.
Giselle and Dale take off toward the kitchen, continuing the conversation and leaving me alone with Eric, who stares at me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“So that went well,” I say, studying the air above his right shoulder.
“Do you even know what we talked about?”
“Yeah . . . things.”
“Eve—”
“You know, as much as I want to explore that disappointed look on your face, I’d rather not right now. I’m going to go hit up the library and do some studying. See you tonight. You’re cooking.” As if I need to say that. He’s been cooking every night, testing out new recipes and dishes for the restaurant. He wants to tell Reid that my mac and cheese with Doritos should be featured on the menu, but Lord knows how that will go.
Oh, Eve’s recipe, gross, ew, I want nothing to do with her—said in a snarky, ugly voice.
That’s how Reid sounds in my head right now, despite the fact that I kept wanting to lick his neck today. Straight up lick the man’s neck, claim him as mine, let everyone in Port Snow know that even though we’re on a break / broken up, he’s still mine. I’ve spent a week in a semidazed state, trying so hard to keep it together, but now I feel myself teetering on the edge of control.
Leaving Knight and Port, I make a left instead of a right, hoping Eric doesn’t catch me. It’s a good walk, one that should help me clear my mind, but instead of taking in the tall ponderosa pines on either side of the street and marveling at their beauty, I’m stewing, my ball of anger growing bigger and bigger with each step. Striding away from town, I’m grateful for the distance from all the prying eyes and running mouths.
I should breathe in the fresh sea air, but instead I’m huffing like a bull, stomping my feet into the ground, ready to charge.
And instead of waving happily at all the locals, greeting them with a friendly hello and accompanying wave, I’m giving them an easy view of the horns growing out of the top of my head and the fire blazing in my eyes.
By the time I reach my destination, I toss the door open and call out, “I hope you have pants on because I’m coming in.”
Harper is standing at the bottom of Snow Vale Manor’s grand staircase, clipboard in hand, paper half-lifted, her eyes wide as she takes me in.
“Good God, woman, who enters a building like that?”
“Do you have booze?”
She points toward the den, where her office is. “Scotch in the desk drawer.”
“Good.” I huff my way across the newly refurbished floors, too angry to really appreciate the beauty of the manor, which Rogan painstakingly restored as a testament to his love for Harper.
See, isn’t that romantic? Restoring an old manor in the name of love? That’s what men should be doing: romantic gestures. Not offering up high fives like you’re bro-ing out in a locker room.
No woman wants a goddamn high five!
I rip the desk drawer open, the force shaking the pen cup balanced on top, and spot the scotch. In one swoop, I bring the bottle up, uncap it, and take a big swig.
“Whoa, what happened to you?” a very familiar voice says from the armchair behind me.
Spinning on my heel, I point my finger at a man who has the same eyes as the dipshit I happen to be in love with.
“I hate you.”
“What?” Rogan’s eyes narrow as he sets down the tablet he was working on. “What the hell did I do?”
“You’re related to Reid, correct?”
“Last time I checked, unfortunately I am.”
“Then I hate you. I hate everyone connected to him.”
“Uh, does that include me?” Harper asks as she steps inside and sits down in her desk chair, looking over what seems to be a checklist. Ever since Rogan opened the manor to the public, they’ve been booking out months in advance for events, and Harper is in charge of all of them. She loves her job, loves her man, loves her life.
How freaking perfect.
“Yes, because you’re happy—I can see it in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it. Don’t try to trick me. I can smell happiness, and it’s oozing out of your every pore.”
Harper sets her clipboard to the side. “You seem a little hysterical, maybe on the verge of a mental breakdown. How about you take a seat and we talk this over.”
“Oh no, I’m not sitting down.” I pace the room, bringing the bottle up to my lips for another swig—guess who’s calling in sick to the Inn tonight? This girl.