“Friends?” She shook her head, looking at me as though I was dull witted. “I’m afraid I can’t be friends with someone I want to fuck.”

“Hell, honey, you’re killing me here.”

But she didn’t smile; her eyes were dull, that pretty mouth I hadn’t tasted enough a flat line. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Emma

I didn’t take Lucian’s rejection well. One would think that the years of struggling to make it in the toughest business in the world would have rendered me immune to rejection. I’d been told no in so many ways, in such harsh terms, it should have been easy to hear one more.

But it was expected in acting. You took your knocks and kept going. You held your head up when they said you were too short, too fat, too flat chested, too young, too old. You told yourself that you put up with the shit because there was gold at the end of the rainbow. Some days that worked. Some days that didn’t.

Rejection from Lucian, however, was an entirely different thing. It was a kick in the teeth, a punch to my chest. It hurt.

The worst of it was he’d been the responsible one in the room, the adult. I had forgotten all about where I was, who I was, who he was. None of that had mattered. I’d simply wanted him. But he was right; I was on vacation, and he was unwilling to even try out a relationship. Better to make that clear before all sorts of messy emotions got involved.

I couldn’t do casual sex with him. I knew it as much as he did. So I’d lied and told him I wasn’t hurt. Even as the cold ball of rejection and regret grew to epic proportions in my chest.

It grew in size and heaviness when I woke to find yet another breakfast basket on my doorstep. Lucian had gone all out this time, including my favorite fruits, perfectly ripe, sliced, and shaped into arrangements that looked like blooming flowers. Thick, creamy fresh yogurt with a golden-honey drizzle and toasted walnuts. Four different types of jams and, of course, the breads. An array of sweet and savory little breads for me to choose from.

I sent the basket back untouched. It was petty, but I had no appetite. Nor could I seem to make myself eat his food. I just couldn’t. It hurt too much. It made me angry as well. I did not want his care in this way. Not if I couldn’t have the rest of him.

See? Petty.

Not petty. Guarded. You have to protect yourself.

I snorted at that and made myself some coffee—not as good as his—choked it down, then went to talk to Amalie. I had to tell her I was leaving. I couldn’t stay at Rosemont anymore.

Amalie texted that she was in the red living room. She’d helpfully included a map of the house, which made me smile. Rosemont’s main house was huge, but with graceful proportions that made it seem, well, not cozy, exactly, but comfortable.

I made my way along the back terrace. Dappled sunlight glimmered beneath the teak arbors laced with purple wisteria that hung like grapes overhead. Each room that faced the back of the house had a massive set of glass doors, all thrown open to let in the fresh air.

Finally, I found Amalie in a beautiful room that might as well have been set in colonial Spain with its exposed timber beams, hand-painted Spanish tiles of blue and gold, and softly worn plaster walls. Amalie lounged on a large plush sofa covered in cream damask. Like a queen, she waved me in with a graceful roll of her wrist.

“Darling girl, I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking a seat next to her. On the square aged-oak coffee table was a silver tray set with breakfast for two. My stomach flipped sickly, clenching in protest even as my mouth watered. Damn that man; he’d trained my taste buds so well I feared I’d never be free of wanting another bite.

“Come.” Amalie leaned forward and picked up a delicate pink coffee cup edged in gold. “We shall eat and chat.” She paused, as if a thought occurred to her. “Unless you’ve already eaten?”

“I have,” I lied. I was hungry and desperately wanted to eat, but I recognized Lucian’s handiwork. Amalie’s breakfast was slightly different than mine: fruits simply put in bowls—no flower shapes here—crusty rolls instead of a variety of sweet breads, and slices of both hard-boiled eggs and ham. The difference between her utilitarian breakfast and my extravagant one did funny things to my insides.

To my horror, a not-so-subtle rumble came from somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. Cheeks warm, I ignored the sound and gave Amalie an apologetic smile.

“I’d love some coffee, though.” God, that was weak. Damn my traitor appetite.

Thankfully, Amalie made no comment as she poured us each a cup and then settled back with a sigh. “So then, what is on your mind? Forgive me for saying so, but you appear upset.” Her pale-green eyes, so uncomfortably similar to Lucian’s, studied me. “Has something happened?”

“I—”

“Mamie,” came a familiar deep voice from the hall. “I’m going to the store—”

Lucian strode into the room and halted upon seeing me, his words cutting off to dead silence. Pinned to the spot by his blank-faced stare, I could only look back, my heart fluttering in agitated beats. It was unfair how beautiful this man was to me. Not perfect, not flawless, but beautiful just the same.

Now I knew what he felt like against my skin, in my mouth. I knew the expression he made when he came, knew the sounds—those deep agonized groans of pleasure—he uttered. And he knew the same of me. He’d reduced me to a panting, needy mess solely with his mouth and hands.

The knowledge hung between us like smoke, thick and choking. We’d never do any of that again. It was over before it really began.

As if the exact thought filtered through his mind, Lucian’s gaze deepened with what looked like regret—or perhaps an apology. Or maybe it was what I wanted to see. I didn’t know anymore.

He swallowed thickly, his throat working; then he blinked, as if to pull himself out of a haze. “Hello.”

There was no misunderstanding who he was talking to.

My lips felt numb and clumsy as I answered. “Hello.”

Lovely. We’d been reduced to this.

He grunted, shifting his weight, a man deciding whether it was better to stay or flee the scene. He gutted it out, setting his hands low on his hips. “You didn’t eat your breakfast.”

My gaze narrowed, annoyance flaring through me. “No, I didn’t.”