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“Whitley…”

“I’m serious. It’s not like I have a packed schedule, and I hate flying anyway.” I try to sound breezy and casual, like my heart isn’t doing somersaults in my chest.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

His voice is flat when he says, “You should get on the plane.”

The air leaves my lungs in a quiet whoosh. “Right.”

I drop the sheet and push off the bed, the cool floor biting at my feet as I search for my dress.

Fuck. It’s not even in here. It’s in the damn kitchen.

The silence is suffocating. I hate this part. When something soft and sweet turns brittle and cold.

If he wants to shut this door between us, fine. I’ll let him. But I’m not walking out without letting him know I don’t tolerate this shit.

I fold my arms over my chest in an attempt to cover myself and glance at him one last time.

“I wasn’t offering because I needed to cling to you, Beau,” I say, voice steady even though everything inside me wobbles. “I just wanted a little more time.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

That silence is all the answer I need. Fuck this hot-and-cold shit.

I let out a humorless laugh. “You push and pull like it’s some kind of sick game, and I’m just supposed to guess which version of you I’m getting each day? God forbid someone actually wants to spend more than five minutes with you after you blow your load all over them.”

He winces, but I don’t stop. Can’t.

“You say all this sweet, filthy shit, get me all tangled up in you, and then what? Poof. Ice cold Beau back in action. It’s like I imagined the whole thing.”

I step back, voice thinning as I try to hold onto my fire. “I think you’re scared to let anyone actually matter. Newsflash, Sinclair—too fucking late. You already matter.”

His face doesn’t change. Not a twitch.

“I saw it, you know,” I whisper, voice cracking. “That version of you that’s quiet, but kind. The one who makes me laugh. The one who whispers good girl like it means something.”

Silence.

My chest rises and falls as if I’ve just run ten miles.

“Now there’s another wall to keep me from getting too close…” I shake my head. “Fuck you, Beau. And fuck me for falling for it.”

Then I turn and walk away, because if I stay another second, I’ll either beg him to let me in…or break down right in front of him. And fuck that.

I slam the bedroom door behind me and head into my own, my breath coming in short, angry gasps. I pull on the first shirt I can find, my hands shaking as I fumble with my phone, desperately needing to call someone who can remind me that I’m not this pathetic, needy mess.

I can’t—and won’t—call Violet. She’s probably wrapped up in Rowan’s arms, as she should be. I refuse to ruin that with my stupid, broken heart.

I pace the room, running my fingers through my tangled hair. Last night’s makeup is probably smeared under my eyes. I must look like a disaster. I sure as hell feel like one.

I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over my sister’s name.

I hit call before I can chicken out. It rings twice.

“Whitley?” Her voice is cautious and laced with confusion. “Are you okay?”

Cue the immediate tears. Of course.