The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants(5)

That was another reason I had to leave Milford. Too many places triggered too many memories and that made it impossible to move on. New York City was a blank slate where I could reinvent myself.

When I arrived at the bar, it seemed no one took the storm warning seriously. The place was packed. I saw Sam in a red plaid shirt, hunched over the bar and nursing a pint of beer.

“Hey there,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. He startled.

“Jane. Hey.” He smiled faintly. I smiled too, hoping that it hid my shock at how bad he looked. The red plaid shirt looked and smelled like it spent the night on the floor after a pub crawl. Dark stubble covered his jaw, which was a big change from the clean shaven man I had kissed nearly every night for twelve years.

It seemed the pint in his hand wasn’t his first.

I ordered my standard glass of chardonnay and sat on the barstool next to him. One drink. Be a friend.

“So what brings you into the city?” I asked, kicking off what I hoped would be a bright, friendly conversation. “Especially with the storm coming.”

One drink. As a friend. Then I would go. I wanted to be nice. And I didn’t want to upset him anymore.

“Just wanted to leave Milford for the day. I had to get out.”

“What did you do today?”

“Walked around, mostly.” Sam shrugged. OK, so he wasn’t in the mood to be conversational. But then why did he ask me to meet him? I concealed my annoyance with a sip of wine. I could be at home, writing. Or I could be at Duke’s, having orgasms.

“Is everything ok?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. And then, “No. The gig at NYU fell through.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. It was habit. He was tense beneath my touch. “What happened?”

Sam lifted his head and looked at me instead of the half empty pint in his hand. He asked, “Are you really sorry?”

“Of course,” I said cheerily. “You were really excited about the position. It would have been a great move for your career.”

His eyes searched mine. What was wrong with what I had said? What was going on with him? Had I done something wrong?

Okay, so I wasn’t totally sorry. I’d been a bit dismayed at the possibility that Sam would be living in my neighborhood. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure this town was big enough for both of us.

“But what about us?” Sam asked softly.

I took a sip of my drink, biting back the words “There is no us anymore.”

One drink. Be a friend. He’s obviously hurting.

“What about us?” I echoed. Then, I tried to keep my voice gentle as I added, “We broke up, Sam. You broke up with me. And I’m with Duke now.”

“So it’s not just a fling? Or a fake relationship?”

It was a fair question, but I was annoyed all the same. After publishing a romance novel where the hero and heroine embark on a sham engagement—which happened to be based on my own sham engagement—everyone doubted that Duke and I were a real couple.

“I don’t have a pretend boyfriend,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

Sam downed the rest of the beer—almost half a pint—and set the empty glass down on the bar. He motioned to the bartender for another.

“We just have so much history, Jane,” Sam lamented. “Doesn’t it seem like a shame to throw away so much of our past?”

Sam put his hand on my knee.

Once upon a time that was the sort of casual, affectionate gesture between a boyfriend and girlfriend. Once upon a time it was a sweet, innocent gesture. Tonight it felt invasive.

Tonight I realized I didn’t want Sam to touch me anymore. This alone was a revelation, because I had spent so much of my life loving him. I thought he was The One. I had picked out the names of our unborn children. Until a few weeks ago, I still harbored fantasies of getting back together.

But tonight I knew we were over. The question was, did he?

His hand was still on my leg. I shifted my position. He took his hand away. I felt relief.

“What about the history, Jane?” Sam asked.

“We can still be friends,” I said. Right? Ex’s were friends all the time. But next time I hung out with my friend Sam, I’d make sure Duke was with me. Or Roxanna. Or anyone who would make this less awkward.

“Yeah,” Sam said bitterly. He obviously didn’t believe me.

I took a big sip of my wine. The sooner this glass was empty, the sooner I could politely make my excuses and leave.

“What about UC Berkeley? Have you heard from them?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“No.”

“Oh, well perhaps you’ll hear soon . . .”