He made a throaty sound of frustration, but her accusation stung. It wasn’t a cop out, so much as a survival skill. He’d learned the hard way that commitment wasn’t for him. “I’ve told you this from the beginning—,”
“Yeah, and we both said this was fake, right from the beginning. The truth is, whatever you said, whatever we agreed to, everything’s changed since then.”
“Not this.”
She glared at him, and he was glad, because anger was so much better than pain.
He needed to make her understand.
“Even before Clare, I never really wanted the storybook ending.”
“Then why get engaged to her?”
“Because she wanted it,” he said, frowning. “I loved her, and I wanted to give her what she wanted, so I proposed, I bought into the marriage myth, when I should have trusted my damned instincts all along. You can’t fake all that stuff. She cheated on me, but I deserved it, Skye. I wasn’t really in the relationship in the same way she was; it’s no wonder she left me.”
“I thought she was the love of your life?”
His eyes bore into hers, and something in his heart roared. The idea of Clare being the love of his life was laughable—she’d been important to him, but no, that wasn’t love. “Whatever she was, I won’t make that mistake again. I’m not going to pretend I want things I don’t, just to make someone else happy.”
“I’m not asking you to do that,” she responded quickly, indignation ringing from her voice. “I’m asking you to be honest with me—and yourself.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw as he looked away. “Fine.” He thrust his hands onto his hips, nostrils flaring as he stared at her. “I like you. Way more than I thought I would. I wasn’t prepared for the way you’d become a part of my life. I have loved having you in my home. I’ve loved coming home to you, going to bed with you, laughing with you, sharing with you.”
Her eyes flickered closed.
“But that’s not real life,” he said firmly, wondering at the tightening in his gut and the sense he was doing something he’d really, really regret. It was like taking steps in the wrong direction, knowing it was wrong, but not being able to stop. After all, what choice did he have? There was no future here. She had a life back in Australia and he had—well, no life, really, but that was just how he wanted it. Safe. Private. Easy.
“It’s not pretend either.”
“No,” he let out a rough breath, softening his tone. He hated hurting her, but it was better to do this properly, so she wouldn’t have doubts—and false hopes—about their future. “But knowing that there was an end point has made us both act differently. I’ve told you things I’ve never shared with another soul, because I knew this wasn’t forever. This,” he gestured from his chest to hers. “Isn’t sustainable.”
“It’s whatever we want it to be,” she challenged, eyes fighting with his, daring him to disagree.
He didn’t.
She was right—and that was the same conclusion she came to.
“Okay,” Skye said, finally, softly. She took a step away from him and he wanted to shout, to swear, to call into the heavens, but he was on a one-way train track now, unable to change direction.
“Then that’s your answer.”
He frowned. “To what?”
“Why I can’t stay. Why I can’t spend another day, let alone up until New Years, with you. Because I’m not pretending. In all honesty, Matthieu, this is the most like me I’ve felt in years—if not ever. Since I left home—the farm, I mean—as a teenager, I’ve been so sure I wanted to go back. I have planned for that day, worked for it, with such single-minded determination that I never stopped to ask myself if that’s what I want now.” She pressed her hands into her chest. “Until I met you, I thought—,”
“I’m not asking you to give up your dreams,” he said firmly, the very idea making a part of him hurt, because he’d never be that kind of man, and he didn’t want her to think that of him. “Please don’t suggest it.”
“What if my dreams have changed?” She challenged fiercely.
He felt hot and cold, his head at war with every other part of his body. She wasn’t the only one who’d made a deal with herself. He’d sworn he’d never get involved again. He didn’t want the risks that came with it. “Look, we have fun together.” He forced a casual tone into his voice, ignoring her sharp little intake of breath that spoke of pain and hurt.
“Fun?” She interrupted with disbelief sharpening the tones.
“Yes, fun,” he repeated, wondering why his veins felt like they were hollowed out by an ice pickaxe, but he pushed on regardless. “What we’ve shared has felt so good and real at times—,”
She lifted her hands, shoving at his chest. “It is real. Stop being a jackass and denying it.”
He was silent in the face of her obvious anger, taking care to keep his expression neutral.