Love, Chloe
Page 33

I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. The car. That was what this was about. “I didn’t put the car in my name, you did. Without asking me. So fix it.”
“The only thing I’m fixing is us.”
I closed my eyes. “You can’t fix us, Vic. We’re broken beyond that.”
“I can fix anything.”
“No Vic, you can’t. You can’t buy trust. You can’t buy back what you did.”
“I made a mistake. One mistake. I’ll never do it again, Chloe. Never.” His voice broke on the last word, and I heard the sincerity in it. How easy it would be to forgive him. To walk away from this tiny apartment and my shitty job as Nicole’s assistant and back into a life of luxury on Vic’s arm.
Everything would be easy, and every day I’d wonder.
If he was really going where he said he was going.
If he really needed to have two cell phones.
If he could be trusted.
It hadn’t been one mistake. I knew that in some place, deep in my soul.
“The car already has a parking ticket on it. I can’t afford parking tickets, I can’t afford insurance, I can’t afford anything extra. Dammit, Vic, send one of your people to pick it up!” My voice was shrill, the words panicked and angry.
“Chloe, love, I’ll buy a spot for you, I’ll cover the expenses. I already spoke to Joey; he’s going to get you a salary for your work on Boston Love Letters, that will help with—”
“Oh my God—STOP!” I screamed into the phone, my voice reaching a pitch it hadn’t reached since I was a child. “STOP SCREWING WITH MY LIFE! I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE!” I gasped, gripping a nearby post for support and wanted to hang up, didn’t want to hear his response, didn’t want to hear anything but a dial tone.
There was only silence on the other end. I wet my lips and assumed a calmer tone. “Vic, please listen to me for once. I don’t want any money from you; I don’t want any gifts from you. I am asking you to please stay away from me. If you love me, if you’ve ever loved me, please respect the fact that I am not strong enough to always do what I should do. I shouldn’t have hooked up with you in the trailer—God, I hate that I did. I shouldn’t answer your calls; I shouldn’t have even read your card. And I definitely shouldn’t accept this car. Please stay away from me. Please do not call me. Please.” The last word was a final beg in a conversation that already had me on my knees.
When he finally spoke, it was a Vic I’d never heard before. One broken and quiet. “I can’t stay away from you, Chloe. I’ve tried.”
“Try harder.” I sank against the nearest wall. “Please.”
I needed him to stay away because I couldn’t.
51. Table for Two
Carter was sitting on the front steps of our apartment building when I walked up. His shirt was off, the muscles in his back stretching as he tilted back a cold blue Gatorade. He saw me and finished the sip, standing up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his abs tightening with the motion, and my eyes dropped down on their own before lifting back to his eyes. He grinned. “Hey, big city. Surprised to see you during the day.”
I shrugged, shifting my purse strap on my shoulder. “Got the afternoon off.” A rare gift from Nicole, one that—I was pretty sure—was motivated by her desire for alone time with Paulo. Behind me, taunting me, the Maserati sat, now behind a gate, in a parking spot that Vic had, in some way, handled.
I smiled, and his mouth tugged up at the corners. I tried to keep my eyes on that smile, to avoid gaping at his shoulders, his sweaty chest, the tone and muscles of his arms as he rested his hands loosely on his hips. I could think of a thousand ways to waste the afternoon with him.
“Well then … given your free schedule, why don’t I take you to lunch?”
Lunch. It’d be our first real date, one proposed entirely by him.
“I’d love that.” I smiled, and he stood up, tossing the Gatorade bottle into the trash.
We made an interesting pair in the sandwich place two blocks over. He’d put on a shirt, the material damp and worn, clinging to his torso—the ensemble perfect for Hot Construction Worker porn. I stood close to him and looked at the menu, discreetly sniffing the air around him. He smelled amazing; masculinity rolled in grass and topped with sex. He had washed his hands when we arrived, the faint scent of lemon now chiming in on the delicious combination. Next to him, I wore skinny white cropped jeans with my Estella wedges and a silk navy top, diamond studs sparkling from my ears, my hair twisted back into a loose and messy knot. The cashier gave me a competitive once over before perking up and zeroing in on Carter.
“Hey Carter.” She flashed a smile that would make a dentist swoon. I stared at her brilliant white teeth and swallowed the urge to ask her secret.
“Hey Monica. How’s it going?”
“Great. You getting the usual?” Her teeth were almost freakish in their perfection. Absolutely straight. I would have suspected veneers if she hadn’t been wearing camouflaged Crocs.
“You know it.” He tossed an arm around my shoulder, and I was able to inhale his smell deeply without looking like a freak. God, forget the sandwiches. I wanted to go back to his place, right then, and work up some sweat of my own. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never dated a manly man before. I’d always dated Clarke and Vic types—ones that wore suits and valeted their cars and grew muscles in the gym but couldn’t actually swing a hammer. This type of man was an entirely different type of sexy, one that could build me a house, a fire, could protect me in a storm or on the street. “What are you getting, Chloe?”
I ordered a Cuban sandwich and lemonade, and followed Carter to a table. “So,” he started, leaning forward, his eyes on mine. “What’s up with the car?”
I shrugged. “My ex likes to woo. It didn’t work. I’m trying to give it back.” A year of turmoil, summed up in three sentences.
Carter nodded and picked up his meatball sandwich. I picked up my lemonade and took a big sip.
Good talk.
“So … you work as an assistant?”
I nodded, with a wince. “Yes. For Nicole Brantley.” His face was blank, the man not up to date on socialites, and I hurried to explain. “She’s an actress. And her family owns a prophylactic company.”
The corner of his mouth twitched up, into a smile. “Prophylactic? Is that how she refers to it?”
My grin widened. “I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever heard her say anything about it, but her mouth isn’t above the word condom.” That was the damn truth. The woman couldn’t complete a sentence without a curse word being present—at least, not in her own home. Out in public, she hid her fangs well.
“Do you see yourself working for her for long?”
I huffed out a laugh. “God, I hope not.” I told him about my tuition bill, leaving out the details that led to my financial troubles, and noticed his eyes, they stayed on me whenever I spoke—almost intimidating in their focus. He was actually listening to me, not just waiting for a chance to speak, his focus one hundred percent on me. It felt odd, a man paying such rapt attention to me, and I tried to remember the last time I had such complete attention, without eyes darting to a phone, or a sentence interrupted, details lost.