Staying On Top(77)

My heart broke, but out of it boiled unexpected, indignant anger. “Hey, asshole, I understand you’re mad. But you don’t get to fling insults at me, or call me names.”

My chin trembled despite my best efforts, and horror replaced the disgust in Sam’s eyes. He rubbed a hand through his hair, looking away from me and then back, opening and closing his mouth a few times before getting words out around clenched teeth. “I’m sorry. You were honest with me before we slept together. I just heard it wrong.”

The tiniest scrap of my hope had somehow survived, and it floated to the surface with his apology.

“I’m sorry, Sam. So, so sorry. I knew you were going to find out how this all started, and that you would be angry and feel stupid, and I should have been strong enough to resist the spark between us so this wouldn’t happen. If I would have known this would hurt you, too, I would have tried harder.” My feet begged me to take steps his direction. A twitch infected my fingers with the desire to touch him, the desire that had somehow become second nature in such a short time, and I hated that I couldn’t give in. Not anymore. “I like you, Sam. I wanted things to be different. But this is what I am. This is my life. I tried to tell you.”

“That things can’t be different for you. Yeah, I get that now.”

“Don’t you think I want them to be? Different?”

“I want to, Blair. I do. I guess neither of us can get what we want today.”

His words bled the remaining strength out of my legs and I flopped down on the bench, letting the tears wash out of my heart and drip out my eyes. It had been forever—years—since I’d cried at all, but it was all that I’d wanted to do since Sam looked at me with hurt and betrayal in his face earlier today. It felt good and terrible at the same time, to let go of the façade that had passed for the real me all of these years, to let someone else see me, even when I felt gross and hateful.

Sam sat at my side. He didn’t touch me, even though it felt as though maybe he wanted to, but the warmth of his presence, of the idea that maybe he was my friend even if we were fighting right now, dug my fingers into that scrap of hope. That even if things weren’t different today, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be. With my roiling emotions drained, my intellect snapped into use again, and an idea took root in the back of my mind.

Not a way to make Sam consider a future with me again, because I didn’t think that would be possible. Relationships were all about trust—that was the reason I’d never had a real one of any kind. No one could trust me, and I couldn’t trust them.

But I could still find a way to make things right. I could do what I’d decided to do between Belgrade and Santorini—get Sam his money back. Get him out of this sticky situation without compromising his career. Figure out how to get out from under my dad’s thumb.

Get my life on track, so that the next time I felt the way I felt when Sam stared into my eyes, I’d be able to believe in the possibilities of love, of a future.

Just thinking of caring about anyone else the way I did about Sam made my heart rebel. Right now, it felt as though that would never happen. But Sam and I would never happen, either, and the time had come to do the only thing I could. One last gesture to what might have been before moving on with my life.

Clinging to any part of my past wouldn’t be healthy. After today, that included Sam.

I took a deep breath and got up, then walked over to the bars and shouted for the guard. Sam’s eyes burned a hole between my shoulder blades. I smiled when I felt them slide down to my ass, resisting the urge to wiggle as the handsome British accent stopped, eyebrows raised.

“I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge. It’s important.”





Chapter 19


Sam



I wanted to be surprised at the way things turned out but I believed in being honest with myself. As hard as I’d tried to ignore my gut feelings when it came to Blair, as close as I’d come to convincing myself everything was simple, there had been more than one red flag—none of them bigger than the fear inside her I couldn’t place, couldn’t assuage.

Turned out my gut was right. That fear in her was born of the idea that I might find out what she was up to before she managed to wrangle whatever account information she needed, not any worry that stemmed from her childhood or her inability to form attachments.

It hurt my pride and my heart, which had been dangerously close to being in her palm when everything went to shit. There was no denying the chemistry between us. I knew in my soul she hadn’t faked that—couldn’t have faked that. The way we connected in bed, in conversation, in silence, was real. There was something between us, something I’d never felt before and worried I would never feel again, but it didn’t mean shit now.