Who's ready for them to talk?

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Thanks to:
Di, my editor,
Paige, Aileen, and Renee, my prereaders.

Stupid Little Game
Chapter 7

I lied to Alice. At the end of the day, I told her I was just going home. Instead, I walked over to Bar Allegro in the hotel conveniently located across from my apartment building.

Allegro was very art deco with its deep blue, leather-studded walls and matching seats, intimate and quiet. Potentially, it was the perfect place to pick up a man on business. If things went the way I hoped, he'd be from out of town, wanting to scratch an itch, and have a room upstairs.

I didn't need a wingwoman to find that, and a one-night stand was nearly a necessity at this point. I'd never done such a thing before—went out expressly to find someone to fuck—but my trusty vibrator was only taking the edge off, leaving me craving more. Dreaming about Edward was a nasty symptom I needed to get rid of.

I ordered a dirty martini from the barman, who eyed me appreciatively. I would have considered him, but he obviously lived in the city, and I wanted a stranger I'd never see again.

Carrying my drink over to the edge of the club by the hotel lobby, I settled onto one of the loveseats. Placing my drink onto the marble-topped coffee table, I opened my soft leather tote, slid out my iPad, then pulled up Wordle.

It was still early, not even six o'clock, and only one other patron was at a table. Silver-haired, well-dressed with a whiskey tumbler at hand, reading a newspaper. He glanced at me, then dismissed me.

Maybe he was gay. Or, darn it, happily in a relationship.

I'd solved the Wordle puzzle, and had moved on to Spelling Bee when my internal radar went off. Lifting my head, I saw my symptom strolling to the bar in all his black-suited glory, bronze hair glinting, heavy against his brow.

Fuck!

Stiffening, panicking, I swiveled on the couch, turning away from the bar to face the hotel building's entrance. Kind of like an ostrich with its head in the sand, if I couldn't see him, maybe he wouldn't see me.

A couple of suited businessmen walked past, pulling their luggage behind them. One of them saw me sitting there and did a double take. Ignoring how unhinged I felt at the moment, I smiled at him, liking his dark goatee and long, lean body. He gave me a wink and nodded once.

Would he be back?

"He's a little young for you, don't you think?"

As the silky, rather cocky tone of voice registered, my eyes closed in pain. Of all the bars Edward Cullen had to walk into tonight, it had to be this one?

"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Don't sit."

Edward ignored me, sinking down onto the other side of the loveseat, as though he belonged there, splaying his knees wide. The ice in his glass tinkled as he raised it for a drink.

Dropping my gaze from his captivating eyes, I watched the motion of his throat as he swallowed.

"What's more important, I think, is what you're doing here," he answered, setting down the glass beside mine with a distinct click.

Nonplussed, my mind went blank for a few precious seconds.

"What I do after work hours is no concern of yours," I replied shortly, angered by the look of easy friendliness on his face. He was acting as if the two of us meeting up was a jolly coincidence, when it was anything but.

Edward's heavily lashed eyes were dark in the limited light, but still intense and piercing, like a magnetic force I couldn't look away from. Those eyes told me he knew exactly what I was doing there, and I flushed in embarrassment.

"A beautiful woman like you shouldn't have to resort to this," he said. "Seems like a cold way to find some warmth."

Under the reproach in his voice, I thought I heard genuine concern, which my heart interpreted as all kinds of wrong. Warmth that he claimed I wouldn't find raced up my back.

I reached for my drink and tipped it back, wincing at the sharp bitterness.

"It's none of your business," I repeated curtly. "Please leave."

Edward lifted an arm across the back of the loveseat, his fingers just inches away from my shoulder. I was becoming uncomfortably hot, and shifted away from him, which brought his attention to my legs. Although the skirt covered me down to my calves, it left nothing to the imagination, easily revealing my curves.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked quietly.

Startled at the soft, unexpected question, my gaze swung back to his face. He was looking at my lap where my hands were clasped around my iPad, his lashes an attractive fan across his cheeks. The tie he'd worn earlier was gone, and his shirt was undone at the collar, revealing the hollow of his throat.

Even that was attractive.

"No, I'm not afraid of you," I scoffed as his eyes rose to mine. At least, not for the reasons he might have been thinking. No, I was afraid of him because of how his presence made my body react.

"Then, are we ever going to talk? Just talk?"

I glared wordlessly at his uncertain, open face, feeling utterly defenseless. And ridiculous, considering I was there trying to forget him.

"Not right now," I answered.

Not now, not here, damn it, when I was trying to find someone to shtup.

"Why not?"

He was either oblivious or being a pain in my ass. Was he trying to shame me into talking?

I took another sour swig from my glass to help ease my nerves, then stated the obvious. "Because I'm doing something else at the moment."

It took every ounce of my willpower not to fidget under his steady regard. Nowhere in his expression was the cold, young face I still saw sometimes in my dreams. The only similarities were his slightly crooked nose and those thick, dark eyebrows.

"So I only have a little time, then," he murmured. "Until . . ."

I clenched my jaw. "Yeah. Until. So say what you need to and leave."

A crinkle appeared between his ruffled brows, and I could see my response hurt him, that it rubbed him the wrong way. The resulting heaviness in my chest took me by surprise; I shouldn't care how he felt.

He raised a hand to rub at one of his eyebrows, and the frank look of pain in his eyes chased mine away.

"After high school, I wanted to—I couldn't continue being the way I was," he said with a jagged sigh. "My anger was crippling. So was my guilt over everything I'd done. Eventually, I decided to go to therapy and get help. It took a long time to work through everything. More time than I'd anticipated." He chuckled weakly. "But after working through a lot of shit and anger, I changed. I know you might not have accepted that in our interview, but I'm not the same person I used to be."

I stared at the blue-studded leather wall in the alcove beside us as his words sank in. They hurt. They made me feel as if I wasn't on the same page as he was, that I was somehow lagging behind. That I was missing something vital, because I'd gone to therapy, too, and it still didn't feel as if I was able to let go of seventeen-year-old Bella around him.

And I was still angry as hell.

So how was he able to eradicate that horrible, ugly part of himself? What was I missing?

"I can see you've changed," I said shortly. "After all, you haven't spit at me once."

His face tensed.

"Yeah. You really want to start this?" I huffed in anger and frustration.

His gaze didn't waver. The angrier I seemed to get, the softer his eyes became. It made me feel like a monster he was trying to tame, but I wasn't a monster, damn it. I was furious because he was there, ruining my plan of trying to forget about him.

"I'm ready to start when you are," he said simply. Disarming me.

I backpedaled fast. "You know what? I don't want to talk about this right now." I lifted my glass again. The liquid went down like acid.

Calm down.

"What better time than now, when we're away from the office?" Edward asked tentatively. "Is it so horrible of me to hope you'll let your guard down a little?"

The look of hope and contrition in his eyes made my heart squeeze. Crazily, the more he persisted, the more unbalanced I was beginning to feel.

Why was it so terrifying to think of forgiving him?

"Sorry, my defenshes are razor-sharp," I replied, mispronouncing the word, and he cracked a smile.

Okay, fine, maybe something less than.

"Am I your judge and juror, then?" I asked, trying to regain my footing. "You can't move past your past until I forgive you for being a rotten asshole bastard?"

His eyes were still impossibly gentle.

Don't look at me that way.

"I was a rotten asshole bastard, wasn't I? You don't have to answer that; I know you haven't forgiven me. You've made it crystal clear," he murmured.

His words hung in the space between us, heavy and horrible. I felt horrible. Carrying this anger around was tiring, and my mouth was beginning to quiver when he continued.

"But, I've moved past my past. I had to work through a shit ton to do so. Learning how to forgive myself for being a bastard is something I still have to work at, but because I try, I feel a small sense of peace."

I felt no such peace. In fact, I was feeling uncomfortably distressed. Damn him, he was pressing the issue when I wasn't ready, but there were too many words in my head and I couldn't ask him to stop.

"I was angry for a long time about my behavior and the way I treated people. But there was a reason, and it wasn't only you, Bella."

Hearing he'd done awful things to other people, not only to me, took me by surprise. His behavior toward me hadn't been personal? There was a reason? What reason could be good enough to attack me? Or anyone?

My therapist once told me bullies were usually bullied themselves, but I had never been able to put the memory of Edward into the victim category. He was intelligent, popular, and good-looking. He'd driven a nice car, dressed well, and played sports instead of having to work after school. What the hell was vulnerable about that?

And maybe it was the effect of the alcohol, but I couldn't decide whether I was outraged or relieved I hadn't been the only one he'd treated so badly. The only thing I did know was that I wasn't in a place yet to care about his so-called reason.

"So you were a nondiscriminating asshole. How lucky we all were to receive your particular brand of attention," I said, and the words came out thinly, as if I was on the verge of tears.

Fuck.

To distract him and gain some time, I shoved my iPad back into its pocket. It took more than one try to get it into the right slot, and I swore again.

"But never mind that. You used to try to tear me down any way you could, and now you're going to sit there and talk to me about personal forgiveness? Fuck that. How can you forgive yourself? How the hell does that work?"

"Therapy. And lots of soul-searching," he answered quietly, as if I were a time bomb he was trying to diffuse. "It took a long time, but learning how to forgive myself did me more good than remaining stuck in a place where I barely functioned."

It was impossible for me to imagine him—a seemingly Type A personality—as barely functioning. It would have involved seeing him as a victim, too. And I couldn't.

But I also wasn't about to have this kind of conversation in a bar. No way. This evening had veered off into The Twilight Zone, and I needed to get it back on track. Now.

"Listen, I'm all kinds of thrilled you've been able to forgive yourself. I'm sure there's a lesson somewhere there for me, but I'm not in the mood to think about it, or to reminisce. Please leave."

Please, please, please.

Seeing my glass was empty, I lifted it, catching the barman's attention.

"I don't think another drink is a good idea," Edward said, then dropped his gaze to my high-heeled booties. "You really don't want to stumble on those."

Damn his persistent concern.

"'I'll be holding on to whoever's arm," I snapped, and he gave me a lopsided grin.

"Careening drunkenly to his room, where you'll probably forget most of what happens and regret it in the morning?"

"Who says I'll regret it?" I asked with an arched brow, and his hands rose in surrender. "Look, I'm really getting tired of saying this, but it's none of your concern."

His fingers began tapping the leather beside my shoulder, almost as if he was nervous.

"If you were really looking for a hook-up, you'd have gone across the river. Maybe to Tunnel or Bodega where people our age hang out?"

The barman showed up with my second martini then, saving me from having to reply that my stopping at Allegro was more of a last minute thing. Not that it would have mattered, because Edward seemed intent on throwing a wrench into my plans.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked Edward politely.

"He's not staying," I said.

"Could we get a couple of ice waters?"

I glared at the back of the barman as he walked away, then turned it on Edward.

"What are you doing here? You never said. Did you follow me?"

He exhaled and bent his head, then side-glanced at me. "What if I did?"

My heart lurched, both at the look on his face, and at the idea of him following me.

"Why?" I asked, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. "Why would you do that?"

His head was shaking before I finished speaking, and he looked genuinely confused as his hand rose to his hair to rake his fingers through it. "Would you believe me if I said I didn't know?"

I gave him a look of heavy disbelief.

"I hailed a taxi that drove past me, then I looked the other way and I saw you. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd followed you for a block, and then you turned into the hotel here."

What was I supposed to say to that?

"We agreed to a professional relationship only," I said, taking a healthy swig of my martini.

He shook his head, his stare impaling me. "Bella, we have history. Bad history, granted, but what I'm saying is that we're more than just co-workers."

I choked. "No, we're not. We're co-workers, period."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is it too much to ask that we someday become more than that? I don't want to be your enemy anymore."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I said. "You followed me, knowing how I feel about you, knowing that I'm not ready to talk about . . . to talk. I've asked you to leave several times, yet you're still here."

His head lowered. "I don't believe we'd get anywhere if I left it up to you."

"That's my choice, not yours," I gritted.

I didn't know what he saw on my face, but whatever it was made his jaw tense. He drained what was left in his glass, then sat up straight. "You're right. I'm hoping for too much, too soon."

Finally, he sees reason.

"I still think forgiving me would be healthier than fucking a stranger, though."

I gaped at him.

"Of course you do." I laughed dryly. "You're just full of opinions about my life. But you can't stop me from doing what I want."

"I don't intend to," he replied, and stood.

Now that he was leaving, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, quickly followed by remorse.

What the hell?

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked.

I frowned. "Why wouldn't you?"

Edward shrugged, looking down his nose at me like a displeased demigod. "I don't know. Your Lothario could be an ax murderer or worse."

I scoffed at him. "I doubt any of the hotel's businessmen have an ax in their luggage."

"Maybe not," he agreed with a shrug. "He'd probably use a knife or a hammer instead."

I frowned. He was trying to scare me.

As if worrying about contracting Covid wasn't enough.

The barman showed up then with a tray of our ice waters. He set the glasses onto the coffee table and moved away. As he did so, I noticed Goatee walking down the lobby hallway. When he came closer and saw I wasn't alone, his steps faltered.

Edward noticed him as well.

"Look at that perfectly trimmed facial hair," he murmured, bending close, and I turned my head away sharply. "That's probably the kind of man who'd carry knives. Or maybe surgical equipment, like hypodermic needles and forceps."

I rolled my eyes, feeling an odd urge to smile, which I cudgeled into submission. "Oh, shut up."

Because Edward hadn't moved away, Goatee turned into the room several yards away from us, then headed to the bar without a backward glance.

Did that mean he was no longer interested?

Which was fine. I was no longer in the mood, anyway, thanks to Dudley Do-Right.

"You might as well leave now," he said.

"You're right," I agreed, wrenching away from him to stand.

Whoa, don't fall.

Edward was chuckling beside me, his hand wrapped around my bare arm. Little sparks of sensation raced across my skin at his touch.

I bent to retrieve my tote, but he beat me to it, then slung it across his shoulder.

"Hey," I cried.

"Let's settle the tab and I'll walk you home."

I glared at him as he steered me over to the bar, a few seats down from where Goatee studiously ignored us.

"You know where I live?"

"I looked at your W2. Add it to my list of transgressions," he replied.

"Asshole."

The barman glanced between us with a look of bemusement before setting a check presenter on the ledge with my credit card. I scrawled out a tip and my signature, while Edward did the same beside me.

Then, Edward took me by the elbow again. I wanted so badly to shake him off, but the truth was that I was a little tipsy. We left the bar, my heels tap-tap-tapping across the marble floor of the hotel lobby.

So, I was leaving, but it was with the wrong man . . . and certainly, not the way I thought I'd be. I should be having an assignation upstairs before I headed home, satiated and considerably less horny than when I arrived.

As it was, Edward walked me arm-in-arm across traffic-heavy Randolph Street to my apartment building, and I wasn't at all relaxed.

"These are luxury apartments," Edward mentioned when we arrived.

"My mom died my senior year in high school, leaving me a life insurance policy," I told him shortly. "That's how I can afford this place."

Shit, why had I divulged that?

I saw Edward's face freeze, then focus on me sadly. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice an attractive murmur. "I didn't know."

"None of you did, and I'd have died before saying a word about it, not that you'd have cared anyway."

Edward inhaled and closed his eyes briefly. "I'd like to think I wouldn't have gotten ugly about your mother's death."

"Yes, well, I didn't give you a chance. I'll take my bag now," I said. "You look fucking ridiculous with it on your shoulder."

He handed it to me wordlessly, his gaze calm and serious as he looked at me. Like everything about him, it made me uncomfortable from the inside out.

I punched in the code for the front door and it unlocked with a click. Edward reached around me, grabbing the handle and pulling it open.

"Okay, then. Thank you for walking me all the way home," I said, slipping inside quickly, and backing away from him toward the elevators.

In response, Edward smiled at me. "See you tomorrow."

"Not if I see you first," I muttered inanely, which made him throw his head back and laugh.

It was the first time I'd ever seen him do that; he was usually so controlled. I spent a beat too long admiring the pleasing sound, the free and easy way he looked. His last glance at my face was one of friendly amusement, and it stole my breath. Jesus God, he was beautiful.

As he turned and walked away, I stepped back to the glass door to follow his casual swagger down the sidewalk.

And, perversely, to see if he'd look back. I'd once read that if someone glanced back after leaving you, it meant they didn't want to leave at all.

Would he look back?

When he did, I sprang back from the door with a yelp.