David suggested, utterly blasé.
“No,” Rory told him, her expression brittle. He needed to leave her, and her apartment, out of any games he was playing.
Rory stepped backward and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I’ve got to go. I’m late as it is.”
“Rory, come on,” David pleaded.
“Sorry.” Rory closed the door in his face and rested her forehead against the wood, trying to hold back the tears threatening to fall. She needed a minute to find her center, to process what had just happened.
She heard her father’s footsteps as he walked away from her door. There went the reason why she found it difficult, impossible really, to trust that someone she allowed herself to love would not lie to her or abandon her. How could she put her faith in love after witnessing her parents’ skewed perception of the emotion all her life? As a product of their twisted love, was she even worthy of being in a monogamous relationship? If such a thing even existed.
She was so damn confused about the meaning of love and marriage. Why did her parents stay together after all this drama? What did they get out of it? Their love, their marriage, their entire married life had been a sham, an illusion...
Love was a sham, an illusion...
“Rorks? You okay?”
Dammit. She’d temporarily forgotten Mac was in the room. He’d witnessed that silly conversation. She turned slowly. How could she explain this without going into the embarrassing details? She managed to find a smile, unaware that it didn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “Sorry about that.” She made herself laugh. “My folks, slightly touched.”
Mac’s skeptical look told her he didn’t buy her breezy attitude. Yet there was something in his eyes that suggested sympathy, that made her want to confide in him, to tell him why her parents drove her batty. She had the strange idea that he might understand.
Rory bit the inside of her cheek, confused and feeling off-kilter. Since meeting Mac again, her life had done a one-eighty. She felt like she was standing in a fun house. The reflections didn’t make sense...
“Excuse me a sec,” Rory said before walking through her bedroom to the bathroom. Grabbing the counter in an iron-fisted grip, she stared at herself in the mirror.
What was she doing? Thinking? She simply wasn’t sure and she wished she had more than five minutes to figure it out. This thing between her and Mac was getting out of hand, and she needed, more than anything, to control it, to understand it.
She was about to fly away with him and how was she going to resist him?
It was just sex, she told herself. Sex was physical. It wasn’t a promise to hand over her heart. If she slept with Mac she would be sharing her body, not her soul, and she wouldn’t be risking anything emotional. Could she be laid-back about such an intimate act? She would have to be, because love wasn’t an option. She wasn’t interested, and Mac wasn’t the type of guy a girl should risk her heart on anyway.
But...
But it would be cleaner, smarter, less complicated if she didn’t sleep with him. Passion and chemistry like theirs was crazy. Her libido was acting like a wild and uncontrollable genie. A genie who would be impossible to get back in the bottle if she popped the cork. It was far better to keep the situation, and her lust, contained.
Rory pointed her index finger at her reflection and scowled. “Do not let him pop your cork, Kydd.”
* * *
In his seat, Mac scowled at his computer screen through his wire-rimmed glasses and wished he could concentrate. He needed to make sense of these balance sheets and read the profit and loss statements for a couple of sports bars they owned in Toronto. How was he supposed to do that when his mind was filled with Rory? He turned his head sideways to look at her and smiled when he saw she’d curled up in her seat and fallen asleep. He picked up a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes and gently tucked it behind her ear.
So much more beautiful than she’d been at nineteen.
Mac pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, conscious of the fiery throb in his arm. His head ached in sympathy. Truth be told, he was relieved to be leaving the city and to stop pretending he was fine. He could take the pain tablets, zone out and try not to worry about Myra and the investor and the fans and, God, whether the press would find out how serious his injury actually was and how much pain he was living with.
Rory let out a breathy sigh and he looked at her again, his stomach churning with the need to have her. That need worried him.
With her, he didn’t feel in control and he hated that sensation. In his real life, he dated to get laid. He and the woman both had fun and then they moved on. He understood how much it hurt to have unmet expectations so he made no promises, offered no hope to the women who slept with him. In his world, sex didn’t involve talking, sharing, caring. In that world, conversation took place horizontally; bodies spoke, not mouths.
He didn’t confide in any of his lovers. He never shared his feelings, and the one guarantee his lovers had was that he’d always leave.
He never allowed anyone to get too close; he’d learned a long time ago to be his own champion, his own motivator. His mother hadn’t believed in or supported him so he didn’t expect anyone else to either.
Rory was different. She made him feel more, made him say more, want more. He was out of his depth with her and flailing...
Mac rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He was definitely losing it. Flailing? Over a woman? God, he sounded like a fool.
Irritated with himself and his introspection, he picked up his tablet computer and swiped his finger across the screen, immediately hitting the link for his favorite news site. Instead of focusing on the US elections or the migrant crisis in Europe, the headlines detailed the breakup of a famous Hollywood golden couple after ten years and fostering six kids.
Mac had been caught in the same type of media hype, on less of a global scale admittedly, and it had sucked.
Phoenix is currently being treated for depression and begs the media to give her some privacy, he read. He’d heard that Shay had suffered with depression during their breakup and the constant press attention had made the situation ten times worse. He couldn’t do that to Rory, couldn’t risk her like that. Yeah, it was Puerto Rico. Yes, they would be flying under the radar. But it just took one determined paparazzo, one photograph, and their world would implode.
Not happening. He had to keep his hands off her.
“You look like your brain is going to explode,” Rory softly said.
Mac rolled his head on his shoulders and watched as she stretched. “It feels that way,” he admitted, knowing he had to address this longing for her. Now or never, he thought.
You won’t die if you don’t have sex. You might think you are going to, but you won’t.
Mac rubbed his temples again. “Look, Rory, I’ve been thinking.”
Rory sent him an uncertain look. “Uh-huh?”
“Despite my smart comments about us sleeping together and that hot kiss, maybe it would be better
