Page 15 of Broken Chords
He shakes his head again, his eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t … “ Glancing away for a second, he searches for what to say. “I like you a lot, Charlie. But I don’t usually sleep with someone this soon.”
“Oh,” I say softly. Then his words filter through all the cracks in my brain. “Oh.” This time it’s louder. I swallow hard and stand. “I’m sorry. I assumed … well, that doesn’t matter. I, uh, I don’t—” I give a hard shake of my head to stop my stammering. I don’t stammer. I’m a trained media professional. Except I do stammer in personal situations where I feel nervous or out of my depth. And I feel both of those things right now.
Damian stands too. “Charlie, look. Let me explain.”
I shake my head again. “No. No need to explain.” Blood rushes to my cheeks as it sinks in that he doesn’t want me. “I thought—but I guess—” With another shake of my head, I take a step back. “Give me a minute, please.” I turn and flee to the safety of the bathroom.
Okay. This isn’t going the way I’d planned. But we can still be friends, I guess. I’m just confused. The touching, the hand holding, the kissing. He was into it. I felt it.
But he doesn’t want to have sex with me.
Fine. Okay. No big deal.
I shove down the desire to cry, blinking rapidly a few times to dispel the telltale moisture that’s gathered unbidden in my eyes, and remind myself that I don’t cry in front of anyone, always saving that for when I’m alone. No one reduces Charlotte James to tears. And it doesn’t matter that no one else knows I’m Charlotte James right now. I armor myself with her thick skin and imperviousness to attention and criticism.
Sufficiently bolstered by my years of training and the fortress I’ve erected over the years, I return to the living room. Damian’s still standing in the middle of the room, but only the top button remains undone on his shirt, the tail of his tie sticking out of his pocket.
He looks up at my entrance, and I give him a smile, consciously telling the muscles around my mouth to pull my lips into a winning curve. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee? I think we still have a few Izze sodas in the fridge.”
“Charlie.”
The way he says my name—tender but commanding—is almost enough to break through the layers I’ve erected around myself in the few minutes I was in the bathroom. “Yes?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his eyes studying my face. Then he seems to deflate as his eyes drop to the floor. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. But I think … I think I should go.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind making coffee.” I’m not really sure why I’m protesting, except that I’m afraid that if he leaves, that whatever might’ve been between us is over. If he leaves, we can’t recapture what we had before I ruined it by throwing myself at him.
He crosses the distance between us and places a delicate kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”
Before I can respond, he’s crossed to the door and let himself out. I stare at the closed door for a long time before I turn and go to my room, lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, numb.
