“You’re my heart.” He steps around the bed, his gait slow and heavy. “I can’t live without you.”
“And now?” I sit on the edge of the mattress, following his approach out of the corner of my eye. “Has that changed?”
He lowers beside me and breathes in, out. “No. But…”
I go still, my fingers twitching between us.
“I won’t share you, Danni. I can’t…” He leans forward, folding his hands together between his bent knees. “I can’t sit here, alone in this house, knowing you’re fucking him when you’re with him.”
“He kicked me out of the casino.”
“What?” He jerks his head toward me, working his jaw. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. He’s just… I don’t know. He left last night and didn’t come back. He won’t talk to me.”
“I’ll handle him,” he says with a growl.
“Don’t you dare. This is between him and me.”
I’ll be back at the casino this afternoon, that is if I still have a job.
“You need to understand…” I rub my palms on the skirt. “As long as I’m in this place of indecision, I’m not giving up on him.”
He stares at the floor, clenching his teeth and making his jaw bounce. Then he stands with his hands on his hips and directs his gaze at the doorway. “I need to think.”
I don’t know what I expected, but his sudden need to leave wasn’t it. My shoulders fall, and I lower my head to hide the despair tightening my face. It’s quite possible I’ll end up with neither of them, and I’m not sure I’ll survive that.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He touches my chin, lifting it. “I just…”
“Need to think.” I nod as worry sets in. “I’m going to take a nap until it’s time to go to work.”
He leaves the room, and when I wake from my nap hours later, he’s already left for his job at the stadium.
I drive to the casino and dance through my eight-hour shift, scanning the dining room for any sign of Trace. He always watches me dance.
Except tonight.
Security never showed up to remove me from the stage, so I guess that’s something. I still have a job.
At midnight, I hurry to the dressing room, shower and change clothes, and head to his private elevator. Punching in the access code, I wait for the doors to open.
Nothing.
I try again.
Still nothing.
My blood boils. He fucking locked me out!
Pulling the phone from my pocket, I open a text window.
Me: A) The elevator is broken, B) You’re really pissed, C) This is a test to see if I’ll bang my head on the doors and make an ass of myself.
Me: I need to talk to you.
Me: Please, let me upstairs.
In the seven months I’ve known him, he’s never not responded to my messages instantly. I know he’s reading my texts. Hell, he’s probably watching me on the security feed.
My stomach feels hard, my eyes itchy and hot. If I stand here all night, the only thing it proves is that I’m a desperate, pathetic woman. Clinging to an elevator isn’t fighting. It’s sitting down and taking it. If Trace wants to give me the cold shoulder, I’m not going to suffer it under the watchful eyes of his cameras.
With a steeling breath, I gather what’s left of my self-respect and drive home.
I’m not a wily or cunning person. I don’t know how to manipulate or play games. Stalking and calculation is for people like Trace, and that leaves me at a disadvantage. If he intends to put distance between us, I can only go at him with the things I have: love and stubbornness.
That night, Cole sleeps beside me with a foot of space between us, as if I need more distance in my life. But I don’t fault him for it. I rejected him this afternoon, and if he tried to seduce me tonight, I would’ve rejected him again. Because sex isn’t helping any of us.
And so it goes for the next week. I dance at Bissara, call and text Trace every day, and make attempts to access his elevator.
I haven’t heard from him once, but I see him. He watches me dance from the shadows at the restaurant. Twice, I jump off the stage in the middle of a song to confront him. But he slips away both times, fading into the crowds in the casino.
Avoiding me.
His silence hurts. It makes me feel forgettable, invisible…unwanted. I shouldn’t have to beg someone to be part of my life.
But there’s a difference between ignoring me and pretending to ignore me. I’m certain he’s pretending and decide to test the theory.
At midnight, seven days after he revoked my access to him, I wrap up my shift at Bissara, shower, and change into jeans, a t-shirt, and a heavy wool coat. Instead of heading to his private elevator to perform my nightly ritual of trying my passcode and sending ignored texts, I walk through the lobby of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel.