How had I let this happen?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pressed my fingertips to my temples. I had to stop this spiral. I had to breathe. I had to think.
Tristan Hawthorne wouldn't ruin me again. I refused to let that happen.
By the time the car dropped me off, I had only come up with one single idea and that was to call my sisters. Tomorrow—well, in a few hours actually—I'd spill all to them, and hopefully, they could help me get over this disaster of a night.
Because I was completely empty. And ready to hide out in my apartment for the rest of my life.
Seven
Tristan
She'd run off. I still couldn't believe it.
One second, she'd been curled up against me, every single inch of our bodies pressed together, contentment swirling in my chest as she practically purred like a cat.
And the next, she was gone.
Had she been pissed for some reason, or had that been her plan all along?
First thing I'd done when I'd woken up to an empty bed was check my wallet. Every last hundred had been there, all of my credit cards as well, and I'd kept an eye on the accounts just in case she'd copied or taken pictures of the numbers.
But nothing. She hadn't taken a single thing from me. Except my pride. And maybe my sanity.
I thought what we'd shared that night had been unique, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing, something I'd never even come close to experiencing with anyone else.
And she'd just left in the middle of the night? No whispered goodbye, no playful note on the hotel's stationary, no lipstick stain on my skin to prove she'd even been there. Just nothing.
Except for her panties.
In the week since our night together, those scraps of lace had become my goddamn security blanket. I'd carried them inmy pocket every single day, clenching them in my fist often, whenever I needed a lifeline.
Yeah, it was fucking weird and a little bit creepy. But no one else knew.
No one knew that I kept reaching for them absentmindedly, running the delicate fabric between my fingers, feeling like an absolute lunatic.
I couldn't help it. I had to do something in remembrance of that night, to make sure it was real.
There was a knock on my office door, drawing me out of my thoughts of her of course. She was all I could think about lately.
I sat up straighter in my chair, quickly swiping my hand across my face like that could erase the daze I'd been stuck in. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilled across my desk, reflecting off the stack of reports I hadn't even touched today.
Tomás popped his head in. "Is now a good time?"
I sighed, not really feeling it. I wasn't in the mood for people, for responsibilities, for reality. To be honest, it was never a good time anymore. At least for this past week.
"What's up?" I asked.
Striding in, he shot me his confident smile. "Not you apparently."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? You've been acting like a lovesick, moody teenager ever since Saturday night."
Unfortunately, he was correct.
In a moment of weakness, I'd confided in my best friend, my old college buddy that had seen me at my absolute worst back in the day, vomiting in bushes and trying to hide under a chair when an acid trip had gone wrong.
