Chapter Twenty-Four

“Mother . . . fucker,” Rath grunts out as he thrusts one last time inside me before collapsing on my back, the warm water from the shower cascading over us. “Jesus,” he mutters, kissing my neck. “You’re going to wring me dry, Charlee.”

Chuckling, I grip the back of his neck and move my head to the side so I can capture his mouth with mine. We make out for a few more seconds before I playfully push him away and hold my hands out to the side. “Now finish soaping me up.”

Penis still erect, chest still heaving, he says, “You can’t be serious. You want me to touch you again, after all of that?”

“Well, I need to get clean, and you have capable hands.”

“So do you.” He eyes me up and down.

I work my fingers in and out and say, “Yes, but they’re tired from yanking on your penis and playing with your balls for the last ten minutes. This girl is tired.”

His eyes grow heady, his muscles tense. He’s so predictable at this point.

Smiling coyly, I say “Thinking about how I put my finger up your—”

“Let’s not say it out loud, okay?” he huffs, cheeks turning red. “Let’s just know it happened and move on.”

“It didn’t just happen.” I contain my smile. “It made you squeal.”

“I did not fucking squeal.” He turns around, grabs the soap, and starts lathering me up.

“You’re so cute when you’re in denial. I can still feel your ass cheeks clenched around my hand as your penis grew at least another inch in my mouth.”

He pauses, hand soaping my stomach. “How long are you going to tease me, because I can make sure that never happens again?”

Laughing, I say, “You’d only be punishing yourself.”

He mumbles something under his breath and keeps rubbing the soap bar over my skin.

“What’s that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Connecting his eyes with mine, he says, “If you ever beg me to stick my finger up your ass, I can tell you right now, it’s not going to happen.”

“Hey now. Don’t punish me because you’re embarrassed. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s a really sensitive area for a man, as you could tell. And if done the right way, it can really give you some of the best pleasure you’ve ever experienced . . . as I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah, well I’d encourage you to remember what happens in the bedroom, stays in the bedroom.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“Uh, your grandma.”

I tap my chin, thinking about it as he pulls me under the water and rinses me off. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Okay, I won’t say anything, as long as you let me do it again.”

He huffs in frustration. “Of course, I’m going to let you do it again. Christ, I blacked out.”

Chuckling, I toss my arms around his neck and lift myself up on his body, connecting our mouths for a deep, passionate kiss. His still-erect penis rubs against my core and even though I just had him, I need more, like I didn’t get quite enough, so I rub my pelvis up and down his length. He stills my hips and says, “You still want more, baby?”

I nod. “Yes, I do.”

He growls into my ear, flips the shower off, and throws on the heat lamp only to drop me on the counter of the bathroom. He props one of my legs up on the marble surface and then bends in front of me. With two fingers, he spreads me wide and rubs his tongue along my clit. God, I love how he carefully drags it up slowly only to return to the same torturous movement over and over again.

I thread my fingers through his hair, toss my head back, and marvel in the moment: the feel of him between me, how he so easily turns me on in seconds and has my orgasm building and building before I can even catch my breath.

“God, Rath, you’re . . . oh yes, you’re so good.” He removes his mouth, looks up at me with his devilish charm, and then sticks two fingers inside me, followed by one in the back. I nearly fall off the counter from the pressure that begins to build deep inside of me. “Fuck, oh fuck.” I thrust my hips toward him but he pauses my pursuit, presses his free hand down on the base of my stomach, and then brings his mouth back down to my clit where he flicks, rather than strokes.

The short rapid movements, combined with what he’s doing with his fingers, has my orgasm hitting me harder than I expected. All I can do is grip him and the edge of the counter as my body spasms against his mouth.

Rapidly my body convulses, my legs squeeze around him, as white-hot pleasure soars up my spine and shoots stars in the backs of my eyes.

Holy. Shit.

When he finally slows down and lets me recover, he pulls me into his embrace and kisses the side of my head while quietly saying, “Watching you come on my tongue has to be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s definitely the best thing I’ve ever felt . . . well, besides having you inside me.”

He chuckles. “Keep saying shit like that and we’ll never leave this apartment.”

“We can’t have that.” My hands run up his back. “We have some food testing to attend today. Flowers and dance lessons are tomorrow. And then cake testing on Friday.”

“You’re so efficient.” He squeezes me tight and then helps me off the counter. “Can you wear that red dress I like so much? The one where I can see your cleavage?”

I roll my eyes. “You are such a horndog.”

“Is it too much to ask for my fiancée to wear what I want?”

“Only if you wear what I want.”

He chuckles and dries off with his towel. “If that were the case, I’d probably be wearing some clown outfit just because you think it’s funny.”

“It’s scary how accurate that is.”

He shakes his head and wraps his towel around his waist. “I know you, babe.” He winks and walks into the bedroom, leaving my heart stuttering and wanting more.

“Did you try the crab cakes?” Rath asks, mouth full, reaching for the teriyaki chicken. “Really fucking good, and dipped in that sauce, aah, babe, you have to try it.” He shoves some chicken in his mouth and then goes for another crab cake.

I’m not quite sure what I’m witnessing right now. I’ve never seen a human unhinge their jaw like Rath has, shove as much food in his mouth as possible, and be able to talk clearly while chewing. I know this is part of us getting to know each other better, but this is a whole new Rath Westin. I haven’t seen this unsophisticated side and honestly, even though it’s frightening, I love it. I love it so much.

“I’m not a big fan of crab cakes, but you enjoy them.” I pat his thigh.

“You sure? Because these are unlike anything I’ve had.”

Leaning closer, I say, “I thought you liked this place, that you’ve been here before.”

“I have.” He shoves a chunk of chicken in his mouth and chews while talking. “Never had the crab cakes though.”

“Mr. Westin,” the chef says, coming up to me, “is the food to your satisfaction?”

“Oh yeah.” A piece of chicken flies out of his mouth—the talented mouth that was on my pussy just this morning. “Great. Really great.”

I can’t help it. I snort into my napkin, unable to hold back anymore. He’s positively revolting to sit next to. A man in a three-thousand-dollar suit held to the highest decorum is devouring a tasting platter as if it’s his first meal back from a three-year trek across the Sahara.

So vile. So unlike him. So funny.

“Are you enjoying it as well, Miss Cox?” the chef asks, trying to tear his eyes off Rath.

“Oh, it was quite—”

Burp

Rath covers his mouth and chuckles as I startle and glance at my bridegroom. “Oh shit, sorry. Excuse me.”

Oh my God. I’m pretty sure his lips just shook like Homer Simpson while he burped. I saw it from the corner of my eyes, but I’m almost positive that’s what waved in my peripheral vision. Seriously, what happened to Mr. Westin? The guy sitting next to me right now is frat-boy Rath with zero manners and is counting up beer money in his spare time.

Turning back to the chef with a smile, I say, “It was quite lovely. Thank you. The chicken was superb with the mango chutney. I’ve never had anything like it.”

He bows his head and then says, “From the way Mr. Westin was eating the crab cakes, I’m going to guess those are winners as well.”

With sauce in the corners of his mouth, he holds up the last crab cake and says, “The best I’ve ever had in my life. You sold me on them.”

“Uhhhhhhh,” Rath groans, the sound of his voice vibrating off the porcelain walls of the toilet. “We are not . . .” He sits up, dry-heaves, and then rests his head against the toilet seat. On a deep breath, he continues, “Ordering the crab cakes.”

I run a cool rag over the back of his neck and rub his shoulders gently.

“You think it was the crab cakes?”

He nods. And turns his head to the side so he can look at me but still keep his mouth in the dump zone. “Had to be. You’re not puking.”

“I’m going to if you keep making those retched sounds while you throw up.”

His brow knits together. “What do you want me to do? Sing you a song while puke is coming out of my mouth?”

“Yes.” I nod and pat his neck. “If I could request “High Hopes” by Panic! At the Disco, that would be wonderful.”

“Unbelievable,” he says right before turning his head back in the toilet and going for what seems like round eleven.

After another half hour of him becoming great friends with the toilet, I help him to the bed where I gently tuck him in, place a trashcan next to him, and put lots of fluids on the nightstand. When I go to leave, he weakly says, “Where are you going?”

“I was going to let you rest.”

He holds out his hand. “Just lie here with me, please.”

It’s impossible for me to say no to him when he sounds that weak and pathetic.

I slip under the covers and sit up against the headboard while he rests his head on my lap. I gently stroke his hair and temple as he clings to me.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve become quite familiar with this man. Not emotionally familiar, because dragging personal information out of him seems next to impossible, but the touching . . . that’s what’s incredibly familiar. I don’t even think about it at this point. It comes naturally to me to kiss him, hold his hand, or strip naked when he demands it. And our working environment? It hasn’t even skipped a beat. He still gives me a list—now with one naughty thing at the bottom that I always love seeing—we still get work done, and we have no problem staying late to actually work, not fuck on his desk. We’ve been able to separate the two relationships—work and personal—which has been a huge weight off my shoulders. Was I worried that we wouldn’t be able to do it? Yes and no. I know I can stay focused and finish tasks when required. And Rath’s a driven, intelligent, and incredibly successful businessman. His success isn’t a fluke. He earned it. But since we introduced sex into our relationship, we have both been insatiable. He’s a god between—and outside of—the sheets. So, lack of self-control was a concern. But we’ve made it work. When he initially suggested the idea of getting married for my grandma, I said yes out of desperation. But as time has ticked by, I’ve become more conscious of how much more I want to learn about Rath Westin. He showed me many sides the other night at Grandma’s, and I liked every part I saw. The vomiting tonight . . . not so much.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for taking care of me.”

I drag my thumb over his soft skin. “Of course. I can’t have my bridegroom puking by himself.”

He chuckles and squeezes me tighter. “I think it’s fair to say, the crab cakes are going to be a no-go.”

“I’ll make the call tomorrow. Maybe they’ll give us a discount because they gave you food poisoning.”

“We don’t need a discount,” he mumbles.

“Yes, well, Boss Man Rich Pants, some of us thrive off discounts. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you need to spend it frivolously. I will get us a discount, we deserve it, and I will have the chef write an apology card to you.”

“Not necessary.”

“Unless, do you think we should change the venue? I mean, do we really want to have the reception at a place that fed us poisoned crab cakes?”

“It’s too late to find somewhere else. Unless you want me to spend more money, then I can do that, but then that would be counterproductive to wanting to get a discount from the current place. Up to you, babe.”

I huff. “Well, looks like you’re feeling better.”

He nuzzles into my legs. “No, just had an extra breath of air. Don’t leave me.”

“Oh boy.” I stroke his bare back now, his corded muscles enticing me. He just threw up for an hour, Charlee, get a hold of yourself. “Are you one of those guys who gets sick and is incapable of doing anything?”

“Guilty,” he mutters into my leg. “Take care of me.”

“Oh, Rath, you’re going to be disappointed in our marriage if you think I’m going to baby you when you’re sick.”

“Baby me now, and I swear I’ll make it up to you.” He nuzzles his nose into my crotch and I laugh and push him away.

“Stop that.”

But he doesn’t.

“We’re talking explosive orgasms, the kind of orgasm you can only dream of. You know all the dirty things you fantasize about, I’ll make them come true.”

“All of them?” I ask.

He nods and roughly says, “All of them.”

Excited, I stroke his hair and say, “Can I get you anything else, you handsome, handsome man?”

Lightly chuckling he says, “Take your shirt off and let me lie on your chest. Your boobs will make me feel better.”

Why are men such horny idiots?

Rath stops in the middle of the aisle. Flowers surround us as he sticks his hands in his pockets and shakes his head in disbelief.

“What?” I ask, looking at a bundle of lavender. Rath has fully recovered from the crab cakes, he’s looking more handsome than ever with color back in his cheeks, and despite the minor setback, we’re back into wedding planning and picking out flowers today.

I know these are things I could do by myself, but I’m using these opportunities to spend more time with Rath, to get to know him on a deeper level.

So far . . . it hasn’t worked, but I am bound and determined to dig deep where this man is concerned.

He steps up to me, tips my chin, and says, “You look so goddamn beautiful today.” Carefully he leans in and moves his mouth across mine for a brief second before pulling away and sliding his hand into mine.

“Are you trying to woo me, Mr. Westin?”

“Would you have a problem with it if I were?”

I shake my head as we walk down the aisle and turn into the next. “No, but I would like you to woo me with your emotional side.”

“You want me to cry? Thought I was pretty emotional when I was throwing up those delicious crab cakes.”

“Not the whiney kind of emotional. Connect with me on a deeper level.”

He pauses in our walk and says, “We connect on a deep level.”

“Do we? Because I still don’t know that much about you, Rath.”

“What’s there to know?” He shrugs. “You know everything you need to know. The rest is just minor details that don’t matter.”

I’m about to counter his statement with the small things do matter to me when the lady who’s been helping us calls out. “Mr. Westin, Miss Cox, there you are.”

We turn to see her walking up with two bouquets. Both beautiful, both expensive looking.

“I quickly put two ideas together for you given your specifications of color and size.” She holds them out. “What do you think?”

Both are striking: brilliant greens with blush and ivory flowers. One cascades down over the stems, giving it an almost umbrella look while the other sticks out more at the sides.

“They’re both beautiful,” I say, taking one in hand while Rath takes the other.

“Thank you, and like you said, once you pick one you like for your bouquet, we can adjust the reception flowers to match. You said twenty people?”

“Around that. It’s just going to be one long table in a private room. We don’t need many flowers, but the venue does have some glass bowls and votives that hang from the ceiling that’s up against an old wood-covered wall. It would be lovely to have some of the flowers—”

Rath clears his throat. I glance up at him and watch him stick his finger in his ear and start to shake it while opening and closing his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

He makes this weird noise in the back of his throat and I swear, in the matter of seconds, I watch Rath’s breathtaking face and chiseled jaw balloon into something I’ve never seen before.

“Oh my God, Rath, are you having an allergic reaction?”

He hands the bouquet back to the lady and says, “Eucalyptus,” in a tight voice.

“Oh my God.” I toss the other bouquet at the lady, take Rath by the hand, and drag him through the florist shop to the corner store. I grab the first box of Benadryl I see, pop it open, and shove pills down Rath’s throat while uncapping a water and forcing him to drink.

From behind us, the pagoda owner asks, “Are you going to pay for those?”

Snapping around, I feel my devil horns poke out of my head when I say, “Yeah, let me make sure my fiancé doesn’t die from an allergic reaction first, you asshole.”

I turn back to Rath and grip his shoulders, in shock that he could have an allergic reaction this bad. “Can you breathe? Should I call an ambulance?”

He grips my hand. “I can breathe. Just really”—he clears his throat again—“fucking itchy.”

“Okay, give it more time and if it doesn’t clear up, we’ll take you to the hospital, okay?”

He nods. I take his hand in mine, keep him close while I pay the owner, who doesn’t seem to care whatsoever that Rath is having an allergic reaction—that’s NYC for you—and then we head out of the shop to fresh air.

I look at my watch and say, “We have that dance lesson. Let me call and cancel.”

He shakes his head. “No, we’re not cancelling. It’s important to your grandma.”

“Yes, but Rath, one eye is starting to swell shut, and you can’t dance like that.”

“Try me.” He attempts at smiling, but his lips don’t go far given how swollen his face is.

“Rath, we’re not dancing.”

“You might not be, but I’m going to.” He starts to walk toward a black car that’s not ours and I take his hand, pulling him in the other direction.

“That’s not our car.”

“Looked like it, are you sure?”

“Positive. Plus, with the way your eye is closing up, I think you would consider a police horse your car at this point.”

“Cheeky.”

“Seriously, Rath, let’s go to the emergency room, you look terrible.”

“And after I just called you beautiful.” He shakes his balloon of a head. “How’s that fair?”

“Please?” I practically beg.

But he doesn’t budge. “Let’s get some coffee; it will calm down.”

Unable to convince him, we get into his car—thankful we’re using his driver today—and get some coffee. Well, I get some coffee for the both of us and we drink it in the car while we wait outside of the dance studio.

“Is the swelling going down?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“It will.”

Facing him, one leg crossed over the other, I ask, “Has this happened to you before? Is that why you’re so calm?”

He nods and sips from his coffee. “Yeah. Two other times. I’ll be fine. It will just take a while for the swelling to go down. My mom used Benadryl when I was a kid too. I know it works.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, getting upset. “If you knew you were allergic to eucalyptus, you should have said something.”

“Didn’t really think about it.”

Growing more upset, I look out the window. “Should I ring your mom and find out what else I should look out for?” Silence. I look back at Rath. “Your mom and dad know about us, don’t they? I know you said there hasn’t been time to visit them, but they do know about . . . me . . . don’t they?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had a chance to call them. We’ll call them soon.”

“Rath, the wedding is only a few weeks away.” As I’ve spent time with Rath, I’ve learned his many expressions. The one I’m looking at now says, Don’t push me. I’m doing this my way. Yeah, I’ve seen that a few times. “Are you embarrassed about me? About them knowing me?”

“No, Charlee, don’t be stupid. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? I’m your fiancée, and you’ve asked me to date you. You’ve FaceTimed with my parents, shared meals with my grandma.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal, Char—”

“Not a big deal? That you could have died from this allergic reaction? That I can’t call your mom and ask for more insight, because she’d have no idea who I am? I’m still a hidden secret at work . . . I should have met my future mother-in-law by now . . . I want to ask if she wants a corsage for her son’s wedding. This is exactly what I’m talking about, Rath. I need to know these things about you.”

“You need to know my allergies?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Then what’s relevant to you?” I ask, my voice coming out sharp. “Because the only thing you seem to care about is what kind of underwear I’m wearing.”

“Hey.” His brow furrows. “You know I care about other things.”

Growing frustrated and really not in the mood for dancing, I unbuckle my seatbelt and say, “You know, I think I need a second, okay? I’m going to go to my apartment.”

“Charlee, wait, what the fuck is going on? You’re mad at me because I had an allergic reaction?”

“No, Rath, I’m not mad at you for that. I’m just irritated, and I don’t feel like getting into it right now, right before we’re supposed to dance together.” I motion to his face. “And I really don’t want to dance with you when you’re having an allergic reaction. You should take it easy. Have Patrick take you back to your apartment. I’ll take the subway to mine.”

“You’re not taking the subway.”

I open the door and say, “Before you, I took the subway all the time. I’ll be fine.”

I step out of the car and Rath calls out my name, but I shut the door before he can stop me and head to the corner of the street where there’s a subway entrance, coffee in hand, purse in the other.

I don’t see how that’s relevant.

How could he not see that being relevant? He could have easily harmed himself more than just a puffy face. He could have choked. He could have stopped breathing. Then what?

Shaking my head and muttering to myself, I take out my unused metro card, swipe it, and walk down the steps to the trains. I have no idea what trains will meet me, but what I do know is, a good ride to clear my mind will help.

Note to self: don’t storm off to the subway without any thought or ability to make a rational decision about where I’m going. I ended up riding the Q line all the way to Coney Island, an hour and fifteen minutes away. When I got back on the subway to Manhattan, we stopped on the rails for forty-five minutes because of engine problems. After another hour and fifteen minutes, I made it home.

At the time it was a good idea. Over three hours later, I’m riding the elevator to my apartment, starving, and ready to be out of these heels.

Honestly, I thought the ride was going to clear my mind, cool me down, but all it did was make me angrier and angrier. We’re only a few weeks out from the wedding. A few weeks before I say I do to my boss so my grandma can watch me walk down the aisle in her dress, and somewhere along the way, this entire thing has become so complicated. Will his parents even come to the wedding? If they don’t know about it now, will they actually be available? And wouldn’t Julia tell them about me, if her brother hasn’t? Why the radio silence?

Does he actually plan to go through with the wedding?

We’re dating . . .

We’re boss and assistant . . . and fiancée and fiancé.

We’re sexual maniacs—because, yes, he’s an incredible lover. But what do we know about each other?

What do I know about him?

I have no idea what I’m supposed to feel at this point.

He said we’re more than just fucking . . . but is that what all his other relationships have been? Honesty, I have no clue because he’s never talked about them. I know he had a relationship with his assistant before and that’s pretty much it. What about college? Any serious girlfriends there? Am I the only girl he’s fake proposed to before? Has he ever been in love?

If we were just casually doing this fake marriage thing, I wouldn’t be asking these questions, but we’re dating. We’re just not going through the motions, we’re actually connected to one another, so why won’t he talk?

When the elevator doors part, I stomp toward my apartment, unlock the door, and sling it open, only to find my grandma and Rath sitting at the counter bar together, looking worried and stressed.

“Jesus fuck,” Rath says, standing from his chair and coming toward me. He scoops me up in his arms and holds on to me tightly. His face is back to normal, his suit jacket is off, and his sleeves are rolled up. “You scared us.”

I push him away and the hurt look on his face doesn’t go unnoticed. “I got stuck on the subway, on the way home from Coney Island. I’m fine.”

“You left your phone in my car. You left before I could give it back to you.”

Damn it. I was too busy reading on my Kindle to even address my phone. It’s because I didn’t want to see any correspondence from Rath. I wanted time to myself, and boy, did I get it.

Grandma comes up behind him and pats him on the back. “Why are you ditching your fiancé to go to Coney Island?”

“Because we had a kerfuffle,” I say, raising my chin. “And honestly, I didn’t want to look at him anymore. I needed space.”

“That’s not how you solve kerfuffles and you know it,” my grandma says. “We face them head-on and talk about them.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted my moment, and if you’ll excuse me, I want another one.” I slip out of my shoes, leave them in the entryway, and take off toward my room. There’s no question he won’t follow me. What I don’t want is to have a conversation with him in front of my grandma, especially when I know she was moving a little slower this morning. I don’t want to worry her.

I leave my bedroom door open and start unzipping my dress, knowing he’ll be here any second.

And just as the dress slips off my body and to the floor, Rath pushes through the door and shuts it. His eyes immediately eat me up as he closes the distance between us.

His hands are purposeful on my hips before I can blink, and his lips are smashing against mine before I take my next breath.

Caught off guard, I linger for a few seconds, letting him take my mouth how he wants but once realization hits me that I’m supposed to be mad at this man, I push away.

Turning toward my dresser, I fish out a pair of silk shorts and a matching nighty top. Right in front of him, I strip. Once naked, I quickly glance at him and see how much darker and more sinister his eyes are.

I turn toward him, giving him a full view and slip the shorts on first, then the camisole. His eyes never fall from my body, even when I walk over to him, reach into his pants pocket, and pull out his phone. I take his finger, unlock it, and then pull up Grubhub and order myself some pizza and garlic knots. Time to carbo-load and eat my feelings.

Once that’s done, I return the phone back to his pocket and then slip under my cool covers. Our eyes don’t stray very far, but we’re completely silent. Keeping his gaze trained on me, he slowly unbuttons his shirt and slips it off his broad shoulders. His pants are next as he unbuckles them and drops them to the floor, followed by his socks.

I watch as his chiseled body makes its way to my bed where he scoots me to the side and slips under the covers as well. He props himself up against the headboard and then tries to pull me into him, but I don’t allow it.

“Charlee,” he breathes, “you can be mad at me, but please just let me fucking hold you, okay? I was scared shitless that something happened to you. Just let me hold you.”

Sincerity laces through his voice as he looks completely deflated and exhausted at the same time, and even though I’m frustrated with him, I can understand that he might have been worried, so I give in and sit next to him. Of course, he doesn’t think that’s good enough and gently pulls me into his chest where he holds me tight.

“Christ, we were scared. What the fuck were you thinking going to Coney Island without a phone?”

“Listen, Rath. I don’t need the lecture.”

“You were gone for over three hours, Charlee. Without a phone.”

“So?” I push off his chest and grow defensive again. “Believe it or not, before you met me, I was able to handle myself in this city without you swooping in, being my knight in shining armor. I didn’t need you coming in to fix my life, offering me a job, an apartment, and a way to help my grandma.”

He reels back, as if I slapped him. “I’m not trying to save you.”

“But isn’t that what you’re doing? Treating me like a charity case?”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he asks, squaring off with me now. “Is that what you really think all of this has been?”

“Maybe not at the start, but that’s what it seems to have become. As if you’re tossing money at a stripper.” I do the hand motion of shooting off bills in front of me. “You’re handing out accommodations, drivers, fake proposals, orgasms, and all for what, Rath?”

“For you,” he says, his voice turning dark.

“But why? I know you think I’m attractive, and oh how great, you want to date me, but what does that really mean if you don’t want to open up, if you don’t want to hand me a piece of yourself? I’m not a shallow person, but you’re making me feel shallow.”

“Wow,” he says, leaning back and pushing his hand through his hair. “Just . . . wow.” He stands from the bed and starts getting dressed. He punches his arms through his shirt and buttons it up while addressing me. “If you think this is a shallow relationship, then clearly you haven’t been paying attention.”

“I’ve been paying attention, Rath. I’ve been paying attention to how you avoid any deep conversation I try to have with you.”

“We have deep conversations. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What about your previous relationships? Why don’t you talk about those?”

He finishes his last button and says, “Maybe because I don’t want to make you feel weird by talking about the women I used to fuck.”

“See? Right there.” I point at him. “You said the women I used to fuck, rather than the women I used to date. Are you really that emotionally unavailable that you’ve never been in a real relationship before?”

He shakes his head and takes off leaving my door open so I call out, “See? Avoidance.”

His feet stomp back to my room and he grips both sides of the door. “Maybe I don’t want to talk about that shit because it hurts too goddamn much to think about it. I’m not like you, Charlee. I don’t want to rehash being left at the altar. I don’t want to talk about the person who hurt me. I want to forget and move on, and that’s what I’ve done.” He looks me square in the eyes and says, “I’m moving on.”

And before I can reply, he takes off again, but this time I hear the door slam a few moments later.

Anger and hurt swell inside of me, turning me into a tailspin of emotion. I drop down to my pillow, shut my eyes, and cry. This is exactly why I never should have gotten involved with the man. I should have known from the very beginning that this wasn’t going to work out. I guessed and managed to get right so many things about Rath Westin. What he’d like to eat, how to organize his office, how to bring elements into his life that made things easier. And not once did he acknowledge those things with personal anecdotes of why he liked them. Not once did he tell me what he thought about me staying with him. There’s been gaping holes in so many aspects of our relationship that I’ve possibly overlooked due to physical infatuation. Foolishly, I thought one thing led to the other. That maybe I’d be the girl that actually makes an impact on the man. I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d let me in. Would give me a chance. And despite the perfect opportunity to talk, open up, he walked away.

Grandma was right—we face kerfuffles head-on. But fun fact: Rath Westin does not. Rath Westin moves on.

If only I knew what he was moving on from.