stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His gray eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair. He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated.
“What, Christian?” I snap irritably after he says … nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.
“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.
Huh?
This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big sendoff? Just to wish me luck in my exams?
“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.
Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes.
Why am I crying?
I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placingmy head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had.
How ridiculous
. Mourning something that never was—my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.
I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay … so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball, but I understood that—running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.
Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity—I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would-be admirers. There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest—no one except Christian Damn Grey. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and José Rodriguez, though I’m sure neither of them has been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.
Stop! Stop now!
my subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration.
Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him … Now!
And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.
I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up.
Get it together, Steele
. I head for Kate’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.
KATE IS SITTING AT the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades when she sees me.
“Ana, what’s wrong?”
Oh no … not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my head in a back-off-now-Kavanagh way—but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.
“You’ve been crying.” She has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she growls, and her face—jeez, she’s scary.
“Nothing, Kate.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.
“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her voice softening. She stands, her green eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get her to back off.
“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can do, but it distracts her momentarily from … him.
“Jeez, Ana—are you okay? Were you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual checkup on me.
“No. Christian saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.”
“I’m not
“What, Christian?” I snap irritably after he says … nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.
“Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs.
Huh?
This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big sendoff? Just to wish me luck in my exams?
“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.
Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes.
Why am I crying?
I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placingmy head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had.
How ridiculous
. Mourning something that never was—my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.
I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay … so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball, but I understood that—running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.
Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity—I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would-be admirers. There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest—no one except Christian Damn Grey. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and José Rodriguez, though I’m sure neither of them has been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.
Stop! Stop now!
my subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration.
Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him … Now!
And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.
I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up.
Get it together, Steele
. I head for Kate’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.
KATE IS SITTING AT the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades when she sees me.
“Ana, what’s wrong?”
Oh no … not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my head in a back-off-now-Kavanagh way—but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.
“You’ve been crying.” She has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she growls, and her face—jeez, she’s scary.
“Nothing, Kate.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.
“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her voice softening. She stands, her green eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get her to back off.
“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can do, but it distracts her momentarily from … him.
“Jeez, Ana—are you okay? Were you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual checkup on me.
“No. Christian saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.”
“I’m not
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