Through the floor-to-ceiling window he could see the golden fingers of dawn spreading across the sky. The snow had stopped falling, but the past few days had turned Central Park into a glossy winter wonderland. Snow lay thick on the paths and trees were draped with a sparkly coating of magical winter white.
The bottle of whiskey was still open in front of him, and next to it the empty glass, a reminder of the night before.
He remembered the dancing, the champagne, that tense ride home in the car and the incredible sex that had followed. Eva had been so open and willing, so generous and honest in her affections, giving without hesitation or qualification. And afterward, during the conversation in his study, she’d been equally generous. Instead of being annoyed or insecure that he was talking about his relationship with another woman when only an hour earlier they’d been wrapped together in the most intimate way possible, she’d listened carefully, paying attention.
Swearing softly, he swung his legs off the sofa and dug his fingers into his hair.
She’d gone to bed with him as a woman who believed in happy-ever-afters and emerged the next morning with her illusions shattered. That’s what a relationship with him did to a person.
What the hell happened next?
He couldn’t walk away because he was in his own apartment. And he couldn’t send her away because he needed her here so that he could work.
Trapped by a dilemma of his own making, he walked into his bedroom, braced for conversation, and saw that the bed was empty. The shoes she’d worn the night before were half-hidden under the bed, a reminder of those few heightened hours of excitement at the ball.
He should have stopped it then.
Instead of dancing with her, he should have let her go home with one of the other men there. He should have stood back and let it happen.
It would have been better for both of them. Instead, he’d destroyed her fairy-tale moment.
He eyed the tangle of sheets and wondered if she’d slept in her own room. Either that or she’d packed and left. And he couldn’t blame her for that, could he?
The thought disturbed him more than it should have, as did the relief that followed when the delicious smells of sizzling bacon wafted up from the kitchen.
She hadn’t gone home.
Trying to work out what that meant, he walked into the shower, hit the jets and closed his eyes as the hot water pummeled out the last of the sleep from his body.
Lifting his hand he stroked the water away from his face, trying to clear his head.
He’d known her for less than a week, and yet he’d told her things he’d never told anyone before. Deeply personal information he’d long ago promised himself would never see the light of day. But there had been something about the way Eva had looked at him, something about the kindness in her eyes and the lightness of her touch that had unlocked secrets he’d kept firmly to himself.
He wouldn’t blame her for misreading the signs and thinking that this was more than it was.
He cursed softly and reached for a towel, knotting it around his waist.
There was no sense in delaying what was inevitably going to be an awkward conversation.
Better to get it over with so both of them knew exactly where this was going.
He dressed quickly and then walked downstairs to the kitchen.
She was wearing his shirt again, and her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head. He heard the sound of sizzling and a delicious smell enveloped him, waking his taste buds. He noticed that today she wasn’t singing and he felt another stab of regret and guilt.
No doubt he was responsible.
“Do I smell bacon?” He decided it was up to him to breach the awkward morning-after moment, although he wasn’t exactly sure which part of the night before would make her feel most awkward. The sex or the confession. “I thought you were vegetarian?”
Without looking at him, she reached for a plate. “The bacon is for you. I’ve heard it’s the perfect cure for a hangover.”
“I don’t have a hangover.” It was a lie and they both knew it, but instead of arguing she turned back to the pan and left him to contemplate why she’d be going to so much trouble.
“Eva—”
“Don’t talk.”
“Because you’re upset?”