He pauses again.
“I’m gonna be very frank with you here. Most men I know would rather roll in bed with the woman they love than do chores and domestic stuff around the house. Modern men have adapted to this ‘new’ reality, but some still want the real thing. A woman who can be the center of their existence. Men like to conquer but also like to be captivated by a woman they perceive as equal. Life vibrates through these men, but it’s not always easy to express that power when things tend to suppress their nature. They are not bad men. They are just men brimming with life, and if they’re lucky, they find the kind of woman they like. Women like them. Like you do. It doesn’t mean they never want to settle or father children or have a home. But when they do, it only adds to their life; it never subtracts. It’s not a trade-off for them or their women.”
His eyes dip to his hands, shadows flitting through his gaze.
“The point I’m trying to make here is that he had no problem with how you wanted him to fuck you. I’ve seen the guy. He could’ve fucked his way through half of the guests at your birthday party. Men and women. But he wanted you. Because he liked you. If anything, he might’ve liked you too much.”
My lips open in surprise.
“I’m not so sure about that. People don’t leave without an explanation when they like other people.”
“Regular people don’t, but he didn’t strike me as just another guy. When someone like him finds his match, it’s not a random occurrence. All that power he has means nothing if he loses himself in you. Something had prompted him to pull away from you. In time you’ll find out what his reasons were. Honestly, I don’t think you’ve seen the last of him.”
* * *
“You can leavethem on my desk.”
The messenger slides a box wrapped in black and white paper and embellished with a golden ribbon next to my phone.
I give it a double take.
“Harper?”
She sticks her head out of her office.
“Has anyone died?” I joke, my smile withering away as I get a glimpse of her face. “What happened?” I ask, concerned.
She looks as if she has spent the weekend crying. Dark circles stretch around her eyes, not a trace of makeup on her face. Her ponytail looks like a botched attempt to tame her hair.
She wears an ugly dress.
Lifting my finger, I motion to her.
“Can you come to my office for a moment?”
Reluctantly, she removes her earpiece, straightens her back, and walks across the hallway.
She looks frail and tired.
Holding her eyes and rolling a pen between my fingers, I tilt my chin toward the door.
“Close it, please.”
She slides it shut.
“Take a seat.”
She lowers herself to the edge of the chair.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk.
Her lips begin to quiver.
“I feel so bad about Adele’s party,” she says in a faint voice.
I look at her, confused.
“What are you talking about?”