She froze. “My motivations?”
“You’re a great actress when you want something, and I’d be an idiot not to consider that this,” I gestured between us, “is all an act.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
Her eyes went narrow, and her face hardened. “No, I don’t. Explain it to me, Vance. Tell me why you think I’m lying when I’ve told you I love you.”
Pressure had been building to a level I couldn’t manage, and it suddenly erupted. “Because it can’t be true!” My shoulders tightened up to my ears and my hands balled into fists. “None of this is real.” My anger burned out, leaving my tone cold. “We were supposed to be partners. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have sold me out.”
Her mouth dropped open, and more hurt splashed across her face. “You know what? I love you whether you want to believe it or not. That’s how love works. But frankly, it’s pissing me off that I keep having to tell you this is real for me. I don’t know what else I can do to prove it to you.” She tilted her head. “It’s almost like you don’t want it to be. Is that it? Would that be easier for you if it were a lie?”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” she said dryly. “When you asked me to put my father’s watch back, you promised me we would find another way. So, I’m asking you the same thing right now. We can work together and find another way.”
“No,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do now because it’s over. You made sure of that when you took his money.”
She inhaled a sharp breath, and her posture stiffened. I hadn’t meant our relationship, but the longer my statement hung, the worse it got. I knew I should apologize and clarify, but I . . . didn’t. The words wouldn’t come.
Her chin lifted and she gazed at me like I was a coward. “Fine.” She spun on her heel and marched away from me.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
She didn’t look back as yanked open the door. “I’ve got work to do. Goodbye, Vance.”
TWENTY-ONE
VANCE
Monday morning, I went in to the office because I didn’t know what else to do. Royce and Marist had gone over to her parents’ house for dinner last night, preventing me from getting a chance to speak privately with my brother. I could have forced him to find time, but subconsciously I was relieved to have an excuse to put it off.
I dreaded the conversation like a prisoner marching to the gallows.
And I’d spent all of Sunday evening regretting how I’d left things with Emery. I’d picked up my phone several times with the intention of calling her, but wasn’t sure what to say, and told myself it’d be better if I waited. She needed time to process all the revelations Wayne had dumped on her, and I needed time to figure out what the hell my problem was.
I loved her. Why was it so hard to accept that she loved me?
It was impossible to focus on work, and after an hour of sorting my thoughts, I finally picked up my phone and sent the message I should have sent yesterday.
Me: I’m sorry. Can we talk?
Time ticked by with no response; the message hadn’t even been read.
After three hours, I began to worry. She was usually quick to respond. Was she hard at work on a job? There’d been a few times during practice when she’d been so focused on listening to her headphones, I’d accidentally startled her.
The image struck me of her sitting on the floor in front of Wayne’s safe with her gorgeous green dress pooled around her. If we’d had more time, I would have told her how beautiful she looked, or how amazing she was, or . . .
I checked my screen, seeing there were no messages from her I’d missed, and she still hadn’t read the text. I scowled. It was now the longest we’d gone without talking since we’d started dating, and I hated it.
It was just after lunch when her text finally rolled through.
Emery: Can’t talk right now. Will call later.
Her clipped response made my heart beat slower, and the rest of the day dragged as a result. At four-fifteen, I sent a text to Royce, asked how late he planned on staying at the office, and if he wanted to share a car going home because I needed to talk to him about something.
He came back and said if nothing else came up, he could be ready in an hour.
I was glad not to be stuck at the office until late, because my brother’s job was demanding and he often didn’t come home until well after eight, but my relief ended when Marist appeared at his side in the parking garage. It wasn’t personal—I liked my sister-in-law quite a bit, but it was going to be a tough conversation, and telling them both would be infinitely harder.