On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [125]
For the first time since Frankie dropped his bomb, Jess wavered. His breath hitched in a way that made Frankie want to kill whoever was responsible, as quickly as possible, which in this case meant hari–kari with a fish knife.
“Bit,” he murmured helplessly.
“No,” Jess said, his voice ragged. “Don’t call me that. I was going to say that even though I know you love me, apparently that’s not enough. And I can’t live like that. I have to be enough, Frankie. Just me. So I’ll go without a fuss, like you wanted. I’ve still got the keys to Miranda’s old place; I’ll stay there tonight and get the rest of my shit from the Garret tomorrow.”
Frankie took a shuddering breath.
“Okay?” Jess prompted, eyes hard on his face.
This was the moment where he could make or break them, Frankie knew. It was still salvageable, like a separated sauce that just need a few seconds more whisking and a little more oil to be perfect again.
But despite the accuracy of some of Jess’s arrows, Frankie still believed this was the right thing. For Jess. Who deserved more than Frankie could give him.
He clung to that like a drowning man and said, “Right. Tomorrow. I might be out.”
The light in Jess’s eyes died, leaving them a dull, flat blue-gray, like wet newspaper.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave the key under the mat.”
Frankie nodded, drinking in what felt like his last view of Jess. After this, everything would change. He could only hope the change would be for the better.
If lucky happenings and life-altering flukes were doled out according to what hurt the most, Frankie and Jess ought to be due for a major haul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
One month later . . .
“Do we really have to go see him?” Lilah asked, putting on her best pout. She was improving her feminine wiles through trial and error.
The amused look Devon sent her way said he was aware of the wiles and appreciated them, but wasn’t planning on falling for them this time. “I know he didn’t make the best first impression on you, Lilah Jane, but I promise he can help us.”
It was impossible to hang onto her ineffectual pout when thinking about what she and Devon were trying to do; the prospect made her too giddy for anything but a big, silly smile.
She worried, sometimes, that this much happiness must be imaginary. Maybe she was still dreaming, fantasizing her wonderful new life with her very own wickedly charming prince, living in a penthouse in the clouds.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked.
Devon looked down at her, and, in full view of the entire bustling lobby of this very shmancy office high-rise, grabbed Lilah around the waist and dipped her back for a breathtaking upside-down kiss.
“Very sure,” he whispered against her laughing mouth, and kissed her again, the bold strokes of his tongue making heat roar to life in Lilah’s belly.
A pair of expensive loafers clicked across the marble floor toward them. “Such a spectacle. Did I not teach you anything, Dev?”
The mocking tenor sent a different kind of heat spreading up Lilah’s chest and neck. She pushed at Devon’s shoulders until he pulled her back to vertical and let her go with one last nipping bite.
Turning unhurriedly to face Simon Woolf, publicist to the stars, Devon said, “Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice.”
Simon’s eyes gleamed. “Hey, there’s always room in my schedule for my biggest client, you know that. And for you, too, Ms. Tunkle, of course. Shall we go up to my office?”
“Let’s take a walk instead,” Devon suggested. They’d discussed it ahead of time; Lilah thought Simon was more likely to cave to their request—and less likely to fuss over the bad news they were breaking—if they got him off his familiar turf. “It’s nearly lunchtime; I saw a halal cart on the far corner that has a line around the block.”
“Yeah, that guy’s awesome,” Simon said. “Sure, I could go for some shwarma.”
Lilah slipped her hand into Devon’s as they headed back out into the crisp fall air. While Devon and Simon caught up on inconsequential chitchat, Lilah let the hustle and bustle of Sixth Avenue swirl