Page 27 of Fake Shot

“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, and I know she’s not fine, because if she was, she’d have a snarky comeback.

“Can we talk about what just happened?” I ask, glancing over to gauge how she’s feeling.

“Let’s not,” she mutters. “In fact, let’s never speak of it again.”

“Jules.” Her name is an apology and a plea. There aren’t many people in this world whose opinion of me I truly value, but hers has become one of them. Over the past few days, I’ve opened up to her in ways I’ve never opened up to anyone else. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to go back to exchanging nothing but snarky comments—though the longer she’s silent, the more I’d be willing to accept even a return to that.

When we arrive at the tall stone steps of her brownstone, she says, “I’m going up to change. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Jules, can’t we talk?—”

“No.”

I think about what Jameson said earlier today, about how if I’d really pissed Jules off, I’d know it. Her icy demeanor and sharp refusal to have a conversation about this is all the confirmation that I need:I’ve stepped over a line, made her uncomfortable, and screwed this all up.

My friendship with Jules is going to be forever strained, and my living situation is about to get really complicated. What felt like the right thing to do, especially with the way she’d reacted the minute our lips touched, was obviously the wrong thing in the end.

I stand on the sidewalk, trying not to focus on the way her skin-tight pants hug her muscular calves as she walks up those stairs to the front door. I don’t want to crowd her, or for her to feel like I’m invading her space, so I hang back. Watching the door click behind her, I take a seat on the stone steps, still warm from today’s heat, and pull my phone out of my pocket.

I sit there scrolling through social media for so long I lose track of time. Finally, I’m about to get up and go inside, when my screen lights up with a text.

Zach

Call me.

Chapter Eleven

JULES

Ilock my bedroom door behind me, then rush into my bathroom, shutting that door as well. When I finally make it through the bathroom and into my closet, I rest my hands on the big wooden countertop of the island in the middle of the room, hang my head, and let the tears fall.

How could I let that happen?

After literal years spent crafting a life where I was in total control, where I wouldn’t be tempted to do anything reckless—living in the same house as my siblings, owning my own business, not dating or drinking or doing anything even remotely risky—I had to go and lose control. And worst of all ... with Colt.

I can’t even trust myself.

Being around Colt isalwaysa mistake. I become reckless. I promised myself six years ago I’d never again have feelings for him or let him influence any of my decisions, and less than a week of living in the same house as him and I’mwrapping myself around him in an alley, practically dry humping the man!

And afterward, he looked at me with regret lining every feature of his face, his eyes panicked and his brow furrowed... and he fucking apologized and said it didn’t mean anything. I was just some mistake he hadn’t meant to make and wanted to forget about as quickly as possible.

Because that’s what happens when I lose control—I become someone else’s mistake.

I let the sobs rack my body, my fingers gripping the countertop and my shoulders shaking with the force of letting out my frustration and remorse. Then I glance over at the space that used to house the door from this room to the hallway—the doorway I’d found my brother and Colt standing in just a few days ago. That door’s now locked, and covered with a layer of soundproof insulation, a piece of plywood, a piece of drywall, and some decorative trim.

I’d installed and painted that the next day, determined that Colt not walk by and hear anything that I wouldn’t want him to hear coming from this room—which right now is the sound of my sobbing.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to straighten up, and wipe the tears and snot from my face. I will not let another man make me question my sense of self-worth. I’ve been down this slippery slope before, and it’s the whole reason I don’t date. It’s the reason I don’t let myself have feelings for anyone but my family and closest girlfriends. It’s the reason I started an all-female construction company. I’m a badass on my own, and make completely stupid, reckless decisions when men are involved.

My life is much, much better this way.

I suck in another deep breath, wipe away the remaining tears, then strip off my suit and throw it over the chair near the windows. Slipping on my favorite sweatpants—which are so soft and worn they are no longer fuzzy, making them perfect for this warm evening—I tuck my tank top into the front of the waistband, and head back into the bathroom to clean up my face.

When I look in the mirror, it’s worse than I expected. My bun is loose from Colt running his fingertips along my neck and digging them into my scalp. I ignore the shiver that wracks my body as I remember the feel of his huge, warm hands on me. My lip gloss is smeared all around my mouth, and my mascara has pooled beneath my eyes, leaving sunken black circles and a dark trail down my cheeks. I look like I could be trying to pass for Harley Quinn on Halloween.

I scrub my face, wishing I could wash away the memory of the regret I saw in Colt’s eyes after he pulled away from me in that alley. But it’s still there. No matter how hard I scrub, the vision lingers just behind my lids each time I close my eyes.

The reason adult me has always held Colt at such a distance—every snarky barb pushing him further away—is that he’s the only person who’s ever driven me to be so damn reckless I almost ruined my own life.

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