“What did Lawrence say to you?” Part of me is anxious at her expression—the other side of me, well, I want her to sign it.

“He’s a jerk.”

“He’s my jerk. Elena.”

She ignores me, her fingers trembling as she turns the page. “What strikes me as the most ludicrous is that you’d actually sue me for five million dollars if I speak to anyone about our private life. Hate to tell you, but Topher and Aunt Clara know we had sex. Already told him, and he told her. No telling who she might tell. She’s a stylist at a beauty shop in a gossipy small town. You should hear the things they talk about in there.”

She’s trying to get a rise out of me.

“Good luck,” she adds. “I don’t have any money. All I have is my house, and it’s not worth that. We might be in court for years.”

“Elena, please—”

“No, you don’t have the right to say my name like that.” She dips her head, her hair swinging to cover her face. “This is so . . . ridiculous and grotesque. I must have been trashed. What was I thinking?”

I lean against the wall at the disdain in her voice. Shit.

“I wish . . . I wish I had read it, because I never would have had sex with you, Jack.”

A long sigh comes from me. “It would make me feel better about us, Elena. Think about it. You sign, and we can start all over again—”

She stands, little fists curled, a defiant tilt to her chin. “How many girls have signed this? How many women have you kept at this fuck palace?”

My lips compress. “No one has been here since she was. I didn’t need an NDA until she did what she did. You’re the first girl I’ve even wanted to be with. No one else has been offered an NDA.”

“I’m so flattered.” She throws her eyes around the room. “You never even took Sophia to where you really live?”

“No.”

“How long were you with her?”

“A year, give or take.”

She shakes her head, eyes flaring. “You really don’t trust anyone.”

“Can you blame me?” My voice is low. “I have a career to protect. And my privacy. I don’t want any more stories about me, Elena.”

She licks her lips. “For a weird reason, I really thought you walked in church to see me, but really it was all about these papers.”

“Not true.”

“Oh, I think it is. Deep down, this NDA has been on your mind.”

I pause. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t brought it up earlier.”

I dreaded it . . . maybe because I sensed she’d be offended.

My skin crawls with unease, but all I can see is Sophia on Good Morning America, talking about our sex life, how I beat her up when she got out of line. Even though she never had one police report or photo or a hospital record to back her up, that shit still got published. It was my word against hers, and when I don’t give interviews . . .

Sure, I put out a comment through Lawrence saying it was untrue and even tried to sue her, but it was pointless, a waste of money—and people ate it up. Even Coach grilled me when it came out. Shit. That was a tense few weeks, but he knows the man I am. Adidas was incensed at the book, especially when I refused to publicly comment about it.

“I want to trust you, but . . .”

“Right. Walls.” She picks up the papers and wads them into a ball. “This is what I think of your NDA.”

I close my eyes, a hard anvil landing on my chest, and it’s not so much about the fact that she isn’t signing it but that I’ve disappointed her.

“You’re right,” I mutter. “You are better than me. You deserve a nice guy and not a banged-up bad-boy superstar football player. I hear you. Do you think I like this? Being alone? It sucks, okay; it fucking sucks. Next up, she’s writing an article for Cosmo about how I forced her to have an abortion.”

She bites that lip and looks away from me, her eyes glistening, and I pause; shit, is she going to cry—

“That isn’t true, Elena. She was never pregnant. I’m not like that. I may have grown up with a man who slapped me around, but I respect women.”

“I believe you.” Her words are quiet.

Thank God.

Her ocean-blue eyes are clear when they land back on me. “I will never tell a soul about our night. I will go back to Topher and Aunt Clara and swear them to secrecy. If I stumble across you at a restaurant or a VIP room—which is highly unlikely—I promise to not even give you a second glance. Besides, you have plenty of other options, don’t you, Jack? Why not ask one of those supermodels at the VIP room to be your penthouse girl?”

Been there. That road is bleak and empty.

And those girls aren’t Elena, with her pouty lips and little skirts and glasses.

She scoffs. “Tell me, what do I get out of signing the NDA? Jewels, evening gowns, galas, an allowance, a new car—”

“Stop. It’s not like that. It’s not a transaction.”

“Well, it sure seems like it. What happened to good old-fashioned hanging out and seeing where it goes? Maybe a date. Maybe more conversations about who you are and who I am? Because I refuse to be some girl you bang when you’re horny and need a warm body who’s signed some stupid papers. I’m a person. And full disclosure . . . ha ha . . . I don’t want to be your hookup, okay? I don’t! I’m team boyfriend all the way, Jack.”

Her chin is tilted up, eyes blazing at me, and I wonder how I ever thought she was shy.

My throat tightens. Here’s the part where I should say something right and good and fix this mess, maybe tell her that she makes me feel like no one ever has . . . but fuck, I don’t know how to even be myself with a girl anymore. She’s right. My walls are up. I’m living in a fortress.

She looks at me. “I’m waiting, Jack. I just said some real stuff. Say something.”

Several moments pass as we stare at each other, and I’m racking my brain to figure out how to get us out of this conversation, to get her on my side—and back in my arms.

“Whatever,” she mutters.

Dammit. I’ve waited too long, and she grabs her purse and shoes and stalks to the door.

I should beg her to stay. I should. Because it feels like that—like I’d be willing to walk across hot coals just to get her to be with me.

Shit.

That is just . . . crazy.

I barely know her!

I clamp my lips together as she opens the door.

She looks back at me, a flash of vulnerability on her face, as if waiting for me to stop her.

I just stare at her, getting a good look at her face, that long auburn hair, those big eyes. Fuck. I’m never going to see her again. She’s done. I feel it.

She lets out a sigh and darts out, brushing past the concierge fellow who’s in the hall holding our food.

Dammit.

Chapter 18

ELENA

“Alert, alert! Douchebag and fiancée approaching the library!” Topher calls to me from the front desk as I shelve a new shipment of YA books. My hands tighten around one as I come out from behind the stacks and glance out the tinted windows.

Preston and Giselle. They’re arriving in his Lexus in the parking lot. I watch as he walks around to her side and helps her out. She wraps a hand around his arm, and they march toward the door.

Someone stops them on the sidewalk, and Giselle holds up her ring. Glowing.

I let out a sigh. I’ve been avoiding them all week. Not in the mood to deal with something I clearly should. Preston started calling on Monday, leaving voice mails and texting again. I never responded. Giselle took up the cause on Tuesday evening, coming by the house, but I didn’t answer her knock.

On Wednesday, Mama barged in and asked me to talk to them. She was businesslike about it, reminding me that Giselle is my sister and always will be, and I need to make things right.

My lips tighten. Why should I make things right? He dated me first!

On Thursday evening, Aunt Clara popped over, surprising me in the middle of a sewing session. I slammed the door to my secret room and joined her in the kitchen, where we shared some bourbon. We barely talked about the engagement, but I knew that was her mission, to convince me to sit down with them. Instead, I told her about Jack and the stupid NDA. We ended up outside on the screened-in porch, a little tipsy, talking about men and sneaking cigarettes she’d brought.

And now it’s Friday, and Preston and Giselle are here to double-team me. Perfect.

Topher slides in next to me and pushes up the sleeves of his Nirvana shirt. “I’m gonna protect you, Elle.”

“I know you would, but I don’t think it’s going to come to blows. Preston isn’t a fighter—or much of a lover.”

Topher’s eyes never leave Preston’s face as they continue to chat outside. It’s a sunny day for the end of February. “He’s an uptight prick. I bet he never got hugs as a baby.”

“She did, though.” Mama especially doted on her. Pretty is key to her, and she showered Giselle with attention, the good daughter who’s now working on her doctorate in physics.

I watch as she gazes up at him, a soft expression on her face, the way her eyes glitter. Love. I want to spit.