Page 95 of That Moment
The echo of the slam still rings through the house. I yank off my earrings one by one, dropping them into the little dish by the sink. Then the shoes. The stupid strappy things that I wore because I knew how they elongated my legs. They hit the tile with a slap.
“Congratulations, Adrienne,” I mutter under my breath. “You win the award for Most Self-Sabotaging Woman in Colorado.”
I walk out to the kitchen and grab the first bottle of wine I see, a bold red from our new Slade Wines division.Bold… exactly what I pretended to be at that bar tonight. The cork pops, a sharp little exhale, and I pour a generous holiday-style pour.
I curl up on the couch, knees tucked under me, wine in hand, trying not to replay the look on his face when I threw those words at him. The hurt. The confusion. The way he opened hismouth like he was about to apologize, and I sliced the moment clean in half just to be a bitch.
Because that’s what I do. I push before I can be pushed. I walk away before someone else gets the chance. I take a long swallow, wincing at the bite. “Toxic,” I say out loud, testing the word in the quiet. “Maybe we’re actually toxic.”
The word lands heavily, but a second later, it gets worse.Maybe it’s me.
It’s not the first time that thought has crawled its way through my head. Scotty even said it, called me out for hiding behind this wall of ambition and fear, for chasing everything except the one thing I actually want because it’s safer that way.
I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Well, congratulations, you stubborn idiot. You proved him right.”
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, the buzz of alcohol barely softening the ache under my ribs. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me tonight, like he was trying so damn hard not to explode, not to make it worse. And I made sure he did anyway. Because if he gets angry, then I don’t have to deal with the fact that I hurt him first.
And then, like clockwork, the jealousy monster in my head rears up.Amy.I close my eyes. “God, please tell me he didn’t go home with her.”
The thought twists something ugly in my gut. I scroll through my phone on reflex, desperate for something, anything to ground me, when a second later, like the gods had heard my prayers, Brooklyn texts.
Brooklyn:He left alone. Don’t spiral. Just breathe. He pushes her off him as soon as you leave.
The words stop me cold. My throat tightens, and another message follows.
Brooklyn:I love you, but this back-and-forth with Scotty? It’s not cute anymore. It’s turning toxic. Figure it out or walk away, babe.
I stare at the screen until it blurs. She’s right. Of course, she’s right.
We’ve been dancing around each other for years. And for what? To keep from admitting that maybe we’ve been using the game to hide the truth. That I want him. That I’ve always wanted him. And maybe I’ve been too scared of what that means.
I set the phone down, staring at the dark window reflection of a woman who looks a little too polished to be this broken. “Harvard Law, Slade Industries, Chief Legal Counsel,” I mumble bitterly. “And still terrified of my own fucking feelings.”
The clock ticks toward midnight. The house is quiet enough that I have nothing to distract me from my thoughts, and for once, I let it be. No noise. No deflection. Just the truth simmering in the dark.
I don’t want to give him up. Not yet. Not when I haven’t even given us a fair shot.
Tomorrow, I’m showing up at that garage. I don’t care if he told me not to. I don’t care if he hides behind those walls of his or pretends like he doesn’t want this as badly as I do. He’s not throwing us away that easily. We’re finishing that damn car, and we’re finishing whatever the hell this is between us.
I finish the last sip of wine, set the glass down, and whisper into the quiet. “Tomorrow, Bescher, you don’t get to run. Not this time.”
I seehis truck before I even pull into the lot. Of course, he’s here, just like I knew he’d be. I park beside it, slam my door shut,and march toward the garage bay like a woman on a mission, which, to be clear, I am.
The doors are locked. I pound on the metal until it rattles, the echo sharp enough to make a few pigeons scatter from the power lines. Nothing. I call his name once, twice, then pull out my phone and try him three times in a row, straight to voicemail.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, hitting the door again with the side of my fist. “You want to ignore me, fine, but you’re still going to hear me.”
Finally, a rough voice echoes from inside, muffled and miserable. “Jesus, hold on!” There’s a shuffle, then a long, grating squeal as the lock turns. The door cracks open, and sunlight spills over him. He’s Barefoot. Shirt rumpled and half unbuttoned. Eyes squinting hard against the morning sun.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” I say, biting back a laugh.
He grunts and rubs a hand down his face. “You’re loud as hell for someone who wasn’t invited.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a six-pack.” He blinks at me, unimpressed, so I shove the coffee in his hand. “Drink that before you pass out standing up.”
He takes it wordlessly, downs half in one go, and winces. “Hot.”
“Yeah, it’s coffee.”
