“Except she looked at me on the plane like she was already moving on. Professional distance, careful smiles. Like whatever we had was just a weekend thing.”
“Maybe because you made her think that’s all you wanted.”
The possibility hits like a slap. Because he’s right. I spent that last night downstairs, wrestling with my own shit instead of going upstairs to the woman who was brave enough to put herself out there.
Who was brave enough to want me.
“I’m an idiot,” I say.
“Yeah, you are. But it’s not terminal.” Chase stands, gathering the empty bottles. “Question is, what are you gonna do about it?”
I don’t know. But sitting here feeling sorry for myself isn’t getting me anywhere. And if there’s even a chance Clare meant something she said in Minnesota—if there’s a chance she’s feeling even half of what’s eating me alive—then maybe it’s time to stop being scared of my own damn feelings.
Maybe it’s time to fight for something that matters.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Damage Control
Clare
The martini burns going down, but not nearly as much as the memory of sitting in that tiny bed for thirty minutes like some desperate cliché, waiting for a man who never came.
“So let me get this straight,” Bryn says, signaling the bartender for another round. “You spent the entire time being the perfect fake girlfriend, caught actual feelings, made yourself available for some holiday action, and he just... didn’t show up?”
“That’s the gist of it.” I down the rest of my drink, the gin making everything feel slightly less mortifying. “Clean exit strategy… executed flawlessly.”
“Bullshit. You’re heartbroken.”
The word hits harder than it should. Because I am heartbroken, which is ridiculous. You can’t be heartbroken over something that was never real in the first place.
Except it felt real. Every stolen kiss, every protective gesture, every moment his family treated me like I belonged—it felt real enough to leave marks.
“I’m fine,” I lie, staring at the olive in my empty glass. “It was always temporary.”
“Clare.” Bryn’s voice goes soft, the way it does when she’s about to deliver uncomfortable truths. “You’ve been checking your phone every thirty seconds for three days. That’s notfine.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve been pathetic, jumping every time my phone buzzes, hoping it’s him. Hoping for what, I don’t know. An explanation? An apology? Some sign that the weekend meant something to him too?
But there’s been nothing. Radio silence from Mitchell Drake, like I never existed at all.
“He made his choice,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “Smart choice, actually. We work together. It would have been messy.”
“Messy can be good.”
“Messy can get you fired.”
The bartender slides fresh martinis across the polished wood, and I take a grateful sip. The alcohol is starting to blur the sharp edges of my disappointment, making everything feel more manageable.
“You know what your problem is?” Bryn leans forward, her dark eyes serious. “You’re so scared of getting hurt that you talk yourself out of anything good.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Erik screwed you over once, so now you assume every guy will do the same thing.” She pauses, studying my face. “But Mitchell’s not Erik.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Erik never made you look like you do right now. Wrecked and hopeful and terrified all at once.” She reaches across the bar, squeezing my hand. “That’s not heartbreak fromsome casual hookup. That’s heartbreak from losing something that mattered.”