“Will you shut up about it, already? You love the car. We love you. End of story.”
“Right. Thanks.” I can practically hear Nikki rolling her eyes, and the thought makes me grin. “Right,” I say again, then clear my throat. “So what should I do about Ryan?”
She sighs. “Hell, James, I wish I knew what to tell you. I like Ryan—I like him a lot, actually. And if you weren’t—” She cuts herself off. “You know what? Never mind.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “You are so not getting away with that. Whatever you were going to say, just say it. I already know I’m a head case, so it’s not like you’ll be telling me something I don’t already know.”
“Jamie.” Her voice is soft and a little sad. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
I shift my position on the bed, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. “I know you do,” I say as the cat gets up, yawns, and then pads out of the room, apparently uninterested in my drama. “Just like I worry about you. But you’ve got Damien for that now.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t need my best friend,” she says, and I must be more fragile than I thought because a tear escapes and trickles down my cheek.
“Listen,” she says gently. “We both know what a mess I am, but I’m not the only one with scars, and I worry about you. I like Ryan,” she says again. “But I don’t want you getting hurt. For that matter, I don’t want you hurting him.”
“Not a problem on either count,” I say. “In case you missed the major talking point of this conversation, he blew me off.”
“Just don’t push it, okay. Go home. Get your head on straight. Don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t go after him like sex is a weapon or something. Promise me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “It’s not.” I’m not lying—I’ve never used sex as a weapon, not really. Instead, I’ve used it as a shield. Keep the control, keep the guys on a leash. Keep it fun, keep it play. Never serious. Never deep.
Because if you don’t let them past the barrier, they can’t break your heart.
“I love you,” Nikki says, and in those three little words, I hear perfect understanding.
“I know,” I say. “And I swear I’m not going to do anything except go home to Dallas. So I don’t need the lecture or the reminder or whatever you want to call it. Really. Now go be married or something.”
“That,” she says, “is a great idea.” I laugh, then give her a quick rundown on what happened on the beach after she and Damien left, and she promises to text me from Paris so I’ll know they arrived safe and sound. I tell her not to bother. I’ve already seen their wedding photos on Twitter. I’m sure the paparazzi in Paris will be tweeting, too.
And then the call is over and I’m left lying on the bed looking out at that damn beach and wondering why the hell Ryan walked way.
Yes, I am just that pathetic.
I sit up, annoyed with myself. It’s over. It’s done. Ryan’s long gone—I’d stood on the beach and watched as he walked back to the house. I hadn’t wanted to follow. Call it embarrassment or pride, but I hung out for at least an hour before I finally dragged my ass back to the house, every step requiring a major effort.
Funny, despite working so hard yesterday to pull the party together—and then dancing and partying and drinking through the night—I hadn’t felt tired before. Certainly not when Ryan had showed up and walked me down the beach, or when he’d leaned in close, or when he’d set my body to tingle.
On the contrary, just being near him was like sucking down an energy drink, leaving me breathless and recharged and just a little edgy.