CHAPTER150
I finally start walking back to the hotel. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I’m calm and my tears have dried on their own. My face is tight and swollen, but I don’t care anymore. I’ve been through so many emotions these past few weeks; I think I’m slowly losing my mind. I’m definitely losing the grip on my control. I don’t even know how to claw it back.
The room is dark and empty. I’ve been gone for two hours according to the wall clock ticking loudly in the modern suite. There’s a light under Jake’s bedroom door. It halts me, pain clenching in my chest that he’s in there with her.
Is this how it’s always going to be? Me desolate and alone on one side and Jake on the other side of a bedroom door with another woman?
Isn’t that what this is all really about? Except I know this isn’t all on him; I’m incapable of letting him get close to me, even if he actually wanted to try. I’m afraid of what that means, what that will feel like. Too much has happened. Even if he told me he wanted me and only me, then how would that work? I don’t see how this could get any better. It’s better if we forget it ever happened. It’s better if we just act like we did before that first kiss in the kitchen months ago and go back to an easier time.
Can I do that? Can he? Can I bear it?
I’m going to have to if I want to keep my job, and I do. I love working with him; I love being his right hand. But surely that in itself is half the problem. We crossed the line, and now I’ll never be able to just be what I was. Because I love Jake.
Shit. I love him. I think I already knew that though.
I push the door of my bedroom open and halt suddenly. Jake is lying on my bed, illuminated by the lamp beside him, with his laptop on his thighs. He’s been waiting for me, his cell tossed carelessly in the center of the bed beside mine. I guess he tried to call me and found mine left behind. He lifts his gaze up from the screen to me and closes it silently without breaking eye contact. He looks every bit like the CEO he was the first time I ever met him, mature and poised. In control. It makes me ache so badly.
“We need to talk.” His voice is steady and deep but hoarse from tiredness; my inner confidence slides silently from deep within and makes a quick exit via the door. I swallow and take a deep steadying breath, suddenly shy and afraid.
I’m better than that, I remind myself, and move coolly into the room, removing my hooded top. All control is being forced back into place, hiding my inner turmoil, hours of tears giving me some of my facade back. I can do this.
“Can I have a shower first? I’m sweating from my run.” That’s a lie as I barely ran anywhere, I just don’t want to do this. I want him to leave. I need space to function and deal with the unavoidable fact that I’m in love with a guy who can’t love me back.
“No, I’ve waited long enough,” he bristles. I feel his eyes on my back. I kick my running shoes off and push them under the vanity with my toes in a smooth, fluid movement, giving nothing away of the tension and panic rising in my throat.
So, this is where PA Emma has been hiding. Finally! Great time to make a comeback.
“Fine, but be brief; I want to go to sleep.” My tone is cold. I can’t help it; PA Emma is my dominant self who slides in effortlessly to protect me whenever she feels me falter, and tonight I have faltered big time. I have fallen in love with Casanova Carrero, and I am drowning.
I can tell by his slow, steady intake of breath that his anger is still hanging around between us. He pauses, and I glance in the mirror quickly to see what he’s doing; he’s looking at his hands on the bed and frowning, contemplating his next move, and he isn’t happy. I’ve rarely seen him lost for words. I feel hopeless watching the anguish rush across his brow; I can tell he’s trying to decide what he wants to say next.
“Is this how it will always be, Emma?” he says with a defeated tone, and I cave inside.
Why can’t I just be honest with him for once? Why can’t I tell him about the chaos that goes on inside my head? Why can I never just talk to him the way he talks to me? Why can’t I tell him that I’m being this way because I love him, and it kills me to know it’s unrequited.
“What do you mean?” I ask steadily and coolly, making slow, deliberate movements to untie my hair, maintaining that outward poise despite the internal shaking and nausea. I want to wipe this day out and start again, go back to safer ground.
“One step forward and six steps back,” he mutters quietly to no one in particular, a tone of deflation in his voice. I can still see him in the corner of the mirror, his body slumped in a non-Carrero way. I can’t help but long for the strong curve of his shoulders to return. He looks so vulnerable suddenly.
“I’ve called Ryan’s; the jet is being prepared to take us back to New York tonight. Pack.” He slides from the bed, scooping up his laptop and cell, and stalks to the door, stopping briefly. He stares at my back; I catch sight of him in the mirror and look away from the angry flash across his face. His body locked in a disturbing pose that says he’s beyond done with me.
“I used to think all you needed was time,” he says, “To learn to trust me, but now I see that talking about this is pointless. You don’t need time, Emma. I was fucking wrong.” He storms out and slams the door as a wave of pain crashes over me. I bite my lip to hold the trembling still and push down the threatening tears.
He has no clue how much I trust him, no clue whatsoever; I wouldn’t have let him do those things to me otherwise. It’s better this way, better that he’s pissed. Better that he never knows the truth. We won’t talk about what we did; maybe we can start over again tomorrow. We’re getting good at sweeping everything under the rug.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
I can at least fool myself into hoping that’s how this will be. For now."
