The Boy I Hate(89)

A woman with dark, silvery curls came to stand by his side and took hold of his arm.

“Dear, this is the young artist who made the sculpture,” he said, lowering his head to whisper in her ear like Samantha wasn’t right in front of them. They held a conversation about the detail, the artistry, and Samantha finally found her voice again.

“Samantha Smiles,” she cut in, holding out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

The older woman took her offered fingers, squeezing them softly. “It’s stunning, dear.” she confessed, “Simply stunning.”

Her husband placed a card into Samantha’s palm, then curled her fingers around the sharp edges. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Smiles. Please call me, I’d love to chat.” He patted the top of her closed hand and turned to his wife. “I do look forward to your phone call, but if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to dance with my wife.” He then nodded his head once more and escorted Mrs. Covington to the dance floor.

Samantha returned quickly to the table, unable to process anything but goodbyes as she tucked the card away in her clutch.

She walked down the long hall to her room with her head held high, praying to God that Tristan had heard her, that maybe he was waiting for her at her room, but the closer she got, the more it became clear that he wasn’t.

She entered the dark room alone, where she slipped off her gown, letting it land as a puddle of fabric onto the floor. She crawled into bed with pins still in her hair and let the tears flow. Tomorrow she would go back to LA, she promised, and try to forget about the man who took her heart while she wasn’t paying attention. But tonight, she would allow herself to grieve. She would cry until her mouth went dry, until all her tears were spent, and hopefully when it was over, her heart wouldn’t hurt quite so badly.





31





Chapter Thirty-one





The next afternoon Samantha ran the business card over and over again against her palm. She’d called Mr. Covington early that morning, and he was flying to Los Angeles the next week to look at her collection—he wanted all of it. Every single piece, purchased unseen, simply because he liked her style.

It was surreal. To realize life could change so quickly. That love could enter, then be ripped away in the blink of an eye. That a career at rock bottom could flourish, simply by being in the right place at the right time.

She fastened the card back away in her wallet, then added the last of her belongings in her overstuffed suitcase. She’d already called the front desk to check out of the room, but glanced around it one last time. The curtains were drawn open, revealing the beautiful day ahead of her, and the empty suite she had to leave behind. But she was leaving behind so much—she was leaving Tristan, who still was nowhere to be found. And a best friend, who she wasn’t sure she’d see for a long time.

She wanted to stop by Tristan’s door one last time to see if he was there, but pride wouldn’t allow her to chase him anymore. Like Mark said, the ball was in his court now. What she needed to say was said last night. She loved him. Unconditionally. It was up to him what he did with the information.

She grabbed her backpack from the top of the desk, and slung it over one shoulder before setting her keycard on the dresser and heading out of the room. She took the elevator all the way to the garage floor, where she could continue on past the valet and out into the city streets. But when she got there, Tristan was propped against the side of his Mustang in one of the stalls. She swallowed hard, wanting to ignore his aviator shielded face, and his feet crossed at the ankles, but her eyes instantly filled with tears. Even though she told herself she wasn’t going to cry for him anymore. Even though she thought every drop of tears had been shed last night.

She tried to rush past him, not wanting him to see her in this condition, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her exit.

He pulled his glasses from his face, revealing tired, dark circles. “Can I talk to you?” he asked, emotion turning his voice to gravel.

She looked up at him, swallowing hard as she gripped onto her backpack for dear life. “Now? Now you want to talk to me? I’ve called you a thousand times. I stood up there in front of all of those people—”

“I know—”

She turned on her heels, feeling emotion try to consume her. Her heart was beating wildly, trampled by a thousand horses, and she needed to get away.

He stepped in front of her again. “I was scared! Dammit, will you listen to me?”

She froze, because she’d never heard him yell before. Or seen him look so tortured. Tears brimmed his eyes, and he used the backs of his hands to brush them away. “I was shitty to you; I know that. I was vulnerable, and instead of letting you in, I closed you out.” He was visibly struggling to keep himself together, and she almost wanted to take him in her arms, but she couldn’t. She needed to hear what he was going to say.