Page 177 of Boss of Me

He inclines his head, conceding my point. “I have an insider at the company who curates image search results to protect my privacy. Just because I’m a public figure doesn’t mean mypersonal life is for public consumption. A few pictures might slip through the cracks every now and then. But there aren’t any more photos of me and Gianna because we’re not dating.”

I shake my head slowly at him. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Generally.” One side of his mouth kicks up. “I’m a genius, remember?”

I don’t want to smile, nor do I want to be disarmed by one ofhissmiles. I’m having a hard enough time resisting him as it is.

“I saw the way you laughed with Gianna at her show,” I grumble. “You’re attracted to her.”

“Not even remotely.”

“Why not? She looks like a supermodel.”

“She’s a child.”

“I’m not much older?—”

“And you’re more woman than she’ll ever be.”

My legs wobble, his husky words playing havoc with my emotions. “What about the artbook?” I blurt out, grasping at the first thing that pops into my mind.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “The artbook?”

“The one you were looking at that day in the library. The one autographed by Willem de Kooning. The one you gave to Gianna.”

“I didn’t give the book to her. I gave it to a friend whose autistic son wants to become a painter.” His eyes glint at me. “I can do this all night, sweetheart. But frankly, we have more important things to talk about.”

My heart skips three beats, then pounds frantically as he moves closer.

“There’s no one else, Marlowe. It’s you I’m absolutely crazy about. I have been from the very start.”

“You sure had a funny way of showing it,” I say bitterly. “You kicked me out?—”

“Because I was terrified, and a fucking coward.” His voice catches in his throat and he swallows tightly before averting his gaze toward the night sky. “For so many years I’ve lived in abject fear of repeating my father’s mistakes, of being just like him. That’s what had always been drilled into me, and I believed it wholeheartedly.”

His eyes return to me, stormy and vulnerable. “When I met you, I felt a connection I never expected to feel with any woman. For the first time in my life, everything about us feltright. As our relationship evolved, I kept telling myself you were too good to be true, but I had to be with you. I couldn’t stay away. I kept things from you because I didn’t want to lose you and I was afraid of not measuring up, of not being the man you need and deserve. But every time you called me on my bullshit, I realized I was failing you, just like I always feared I would. In the end, I decided to let you go before I hurt you any further.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “If I’m being honest, I was also afraid you’d get sick of me and leave?—”

“So you beat me to it? Hurt me before I could hurt you?”

At the guilty flicker in his eyes, I turn away and try to blink back my gathering tears, but they keep coming.

“I could stand here and talk about childhood trauma. About being the product of an alcoholic father and an emotionally abusive mother. I could tell you they fucked me up, and all of that would be true.” His voice drops an octave. “But my parents aren’t the ones who broke your heart. That was me. And there aren’t enough words in the universe to tell you how truly sorry I am.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting every urge to give in, to accept his apology, to trust him with my heart again.

“Look at me.”

I shake my head.

He puts his fingers under my chin and turns my face, but I stubbornly refuse to meet his gaze.

“Tell me you’re happier without me,” he roughly commands. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me anymore.”

I swallow painfully. “Gunner?—”

“Tell me.”

I force myself to look up into his face, hating the slight tremor in my chin.