Maybe another more sophisticated woman—one who goes to clubs and is able to seductively lure men, instead of reading too many volumes of English literature—would play it cool as ice, dismissing him without a backward glance. But I’m not like that. I can’t pretend I’m not hurt, can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. I’ve spent the last six months living out my wildest dreams, and I refuse to spend the rest of my days wondering where I went wrong.
Our relationship was like the most perfect romantic comedy, without any of the annoying misunderstandings common in the genre. I mean really—it was the stuff of fantasies.
We had a meet cute, when I slammed my grocery cart into him.
I was shy.
He was gorgeous.
I fluttered my lashes.
He ran a hand over a strong jaw, shadowed with roguish five o’clock stubble.
I stammered like an idiot.
He was charming and flirtatious.
As a demolition expert, Mason doesn’t wear a suit to work. Instead all six feet-four inches of him was clad in a navy T-shirt with his company logo on it and form-fitting jeans.
I was in my schoolteacher's clothes and couldn’t believe he kept talking to me and making me laugh.
It had been sheer perfection.
He was exactly the kind of man I secretly desired but never dreamed I could attract.
Not that I’m ugly. Actually, I’m quite pretty. But guys like Mason never approach me. The problem is I’m too cute, too girl-next-door. With blond, curly, shoulder-length hair, a low-key personality, and a job as a first-grade teacher, I attract nice men who desire a nice girl.
I can’t help being a nice girl any more than daring girls can help being exciting.
Only I’m a nice girl who has the misfortune of being attracted to men like Mason: men who ooze sex appeal, hint at danger, and have a reckless gleam in their eyes.
I couldn’t believe my good fortune when he asked me to join him for coffee. I didn’t even hesitate, and as he teased me over lattes, I was as giddy as a sixteen year old on her first date.
Coffee had progressed to lunch, and then dinner, until seeing each other on Saturday night was implied. He took the sexual part of our relationship excruciatingly slow, coaxing and seducing me out of my shyness until I finally invited him to bed. Of course he was as fantastic at sex as he as at everything else.
We were a goddamn Hallmark movie!
So what happened?
The silence starts to grate on me, and I prompt, “Well?”
Dark, intense, unreadable, melting-chocolate eyes spear into my very core before darting away.
He clears his throat. “We want different things.”
I shake my head. “What kind of answer is that?”
Something shifts in his expression, and his fingers tighten until his tanned knuckles turn white. “I care about you a lot.”
The words cut like a knife. At least I never told him I loved him. At least I’m to be spared that final humiliation.
I cross my arms. “Let me get this straight. Everything has been going along fine, and all of the sudden it’s not enough?”
“It’s not all of the sudden,” he says, his voice calm, soft, ripe with sympathy.
For some reason, his response infuriates me more than him ending things. I need answers! I need to shatter his dead-eyed restraint so I can get to the truth. I have the urge to break him, make him feel a fraction of what I feel.
I hug myself tighter. “I see. And did you feel this way last night when you made love to me three times?”