Page 92 of Broken Saint

“I can’t give away all my secrets,” he says coyly.

Teasingly, I reach for my purse on my lap and pull my cell out. “It’s okay, I’ll just Google it.”

“You won’t find anything on there,” he mutters.

“I think you’ll find that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Rogers. Almost every part of your life has been well documented on the internet up until this point,” I state confidently.

“Oh yeah, and how would you know, Miss Myers?” he teases. “Been keeping tabs?”

He already knows the answer to that question. If I hadn’t confessed to it last night, then I’m pretty sure the evidence speaks for itself.

“Sometimes you pop up on my feed,” I confess.

“Sometimes, sure. Ever seen anything you like?” When he glances over, I can almost see some of the endorsement campaigns he’s done over the years flicking through his head.

“I mean, the underwear ad you did was okay,” I say quietly, turning to look out the window as we fly through downtown Seattle.

He barks out a laugh. “It was okay?” He balks. “Do you know how much fucking work that took?”

“Aw, poor, baby. Flexing those muscles after being rubbed down with oil by some hot girl must really suck,” I tease, desperately trying to ignore the jealousy that swirls deep in my gut.

“That wasn’t the half of it. The photographers were ballbusters. Nothing I did was good enough. My angles were wrong, my muscle definition wasn’t strong enough. And the girl?—”

“Was quite possibly the prettiest, skinniest, and hottest girl on the planet.”

His stare burns the side of my face, but I refuse to look over and acknowledge that I just spoke those words aloud.

“She was awful. Demanding, arrogant, too skinny, too…everything. I couldn’t stand her.”

“You’re lying,” I say quietly, unable to accept his words when I’ve spent hours staring at the chemistry the two of them oozed in the images they made together.

His warm hand reaches over and plucks mine straight out of my lap, his fingers making quick work of uncurling my tight fist.

“Ella, I’d never lie to you. I promise you, you are worth a million of her. I don’t even remember her name.”

“So you didn’t sleep with her after the shoot?” I say, recollecting a story I read the day after the photos were released.

“Uh…” he stutters, and my heart plummets into my feet. “Fuck, El. I’m sorry,” he says, tugging his hand from mine in favor of dragging it down his face.

“No, you don’t need to be.” I want to sound strong, assured. But each word that passes my lips sounds even more bitter than the last. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“If it makes you look and feel like you do now, then yeah, Bombshell, I have.”

“You had no reason to consider my feelings. We were done. You were free to do as you wished.”

“I know this probably won’t make an ounce of difference, but no matter how many women I’ve fucked, I’ve wanted every single one to be you.”

“Colt,” I sob as a huge lump crawls up my throat, stopping me from saying anything more.

“It’s true. You’re the only one who’s meant anything. The only one I’ve remembered and thought about time and timeagain. The others…they were a means to an end. Therapy, in a way.”

“Therapy?” I ask, my brow wrinkling.

“Yeah. Come on, we’re here,” he says abruptly, putting an end to our conversation.

I blink and look out the windshield.

“Oh wow, that’s?—”

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