Page 20

CHAPTER 19

LIZZY

NEVER AGAIN

I walk down the aisle at Finch, heading straight towards the back corner. I’ve always loved this shop. Something about the combination of an independent bookstore and a coffee shop is just right. Not to mention that they have a very well curated romance section. Seriously, whoever picks their books knows what’s up.

And with my parents always busy when we were in town, I was always free to roam and buy whatever book I wanted on Dad’s credit card. They’d either drop me off on Main Street after a day of skiing or let me take the condo’s shuttle.

So it’s only fitting that today, on my birthday, I stop in. I’m just glad it’s Friday and I can wash away this feeling spending the weekend in bed with a new book. Go figure - my dad, yet again, has forgotten about my birthday. It shouldn’t be hard to remember your firstborn’s birthday. I just don’t get it. Growing up I did everything my parents asked. My mom always remembers, but it’s like my dad just forgot I existed at some point or didn’t know how to talk to me. It would always be some excuse like getting caught up with work. It just never seemed like I was a priority for him as I got older.

So yeah, I’m treating myself today.

Do I need to find some faerie dragon smut today? Absolutely not.

Do I want it? Absolutely yes .

I hope they have the first book in that series Clay mentioned during our morning yoga the other day. I’d read his, but I’m not going to crease the bindings in his special edition hardbacks, even if he said they’re meant for reading, Lizzy.

I browse the shelf, spotting the black jacketed book with gold lettering on the top row. Scales of Fury . I think it’s supposed to be a pun on tipping the scales and dragons having scales? Either way, I’ve learned that Clay weirdly knows his books and I’m in the mood for some romantasy. His library and trophy room is the stuff of dreams. Who would have ever thought Mr. Dark and Broody was a book girlie under his all black wardrobe and constant scowls?

Grabbing the book, I head towards the counter to order my coffee and pay.

“Oh my gosh!” The girl behind the counter practically squeals when she grabs my book to ring me out. I think her name is Hannah? I can’t remember what Clay said. “I love this series. The spice? Give me all of it.”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what my friend who recommended it said. I think you know Clay, right?” He also said I should get a dragon dildo to go with it, but I’m not going to volunteer that tidbit.

She nods as she enters my coffee order and bags my book with the receipt. “Yep. Clay is here almost everyday, if not multiple times a day. He’s our favorite customer, hands down.” She laughs and then points back at my book. “We actually just had that author in for a signing. She was so sweet. She signed all the copies we had too.” I flip to the title page and sure enough, it’s signed.

“Wow. Very cool. Thanks!” I take my bag and find a comfy leather seat by the front window. I pull out my phone, opening my social media app. I haven’t logged into my bookstagram account in ages, but some character art would be cool to see and get me in the mood to start the book.

I scroll through my feed. Books, more books, smutty memes. All the stuff I used to love seeing. But I freeze on one post. My thumb hovers over my phone screen.

“What the fuck?” I mumble under my breath.

That’s a hand. A hand with a fucking engagement ring. On Johnathan’s profile. I unfollowed and blocked him from all my accounts and feeds, but I must have forgotten about my bookstagram account since I haven’t used it in forever.

I finally swipe to the next picture. They’re sitting there, her hand out while she sits in his lap. It’s barely been six months and they’re engaged. He’s engaged to the woman he cheated on me with.

I can feel my face start to scrunch together. I don’t cry. But for once, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop it and I don’t care.

Why am I not good enough? Why am I never fucking good enough?

I rush out of Finch, not bothering to wait for my coffee. I need to get home. Or at least back to Clay’s house. I’ve had enough people for today.

No.

Screw that.

Enough people forever.

I suddenly get why Clay hates people.

Enough crap like this and I’d want to live in a cozy house, alone, up in the mountains too.

When I pull into Clay’s driveway, I slam my car door shut and rush inside. Despite the shit show of emotions running through my head and tears running down my face, I still somehow remember to hang my jacket and put my shoes in their tray. Fucking Clay. It’s only been two weeks and somehow he’s got me remembering his control freak routine.

“Hey, princess. How was your day?” Clay’s deep, playful voice rumbles from the living room into the kitchen. Shit. He must have come home from work early. I don’t need him to see me like this. I never want him to see me like this. No one gets to see me like this.

I rush through the kitchen trying to cut through the living room towards the hall to the bedrooms. Clay must have been stretching because he’s in his gray sweatpants and shirtless and just a bit sweaty. When he sees me, he jumps to his feet and rushes over, cutting me off from the hallway.

“I don’t want to talk. I’ve had a shitty day. I just want to go lay down. I don’t want to play games.” I keep my eyes down, trying to hide my tears and get past him, but he stretches an arm out and catches me by my waist with his stupid and hot bear paw mitts he calls hands. My momentum carries me forward and I fall face first into his broad, muscular chest. The feeling of his warmth against my face and the sudden, unexpected skin to skin contact, is so overwhelming but soothing. I lean into him more, craving this level of comfort. My tears become sobs. I don’t care that I’m sobbing into his chest. We’ve gotten past our initial bitterness since the misunderstanding at the bar. We’re closer. We’re friends even. But he didn’t sign up for this. This isn’t part of the acquaintances that tolerate each other playbook.

“Lizzy.” His voice is deep, but the playful tone is long gone. “What happened? What the fuck is wrong?”

I sniffle into his chest, surprisingly enjoying his leathery cedar scent. How does he smell like this when he was just working out?

“It’s nothing. It’s not your problem. Can you just let me go? I just want to lay down.” I try to side step him, but he matches my step, putting my face once again back into his chest.

I look up at him and his eyes are locked on to mine. There’s a look in those beautiful emerald green eyes I haven’t seen before. They’re intense, like the night at the bar. But there’s a softness to them too. It’s like he’s inspecting me for some kind of damage, where I might be hurt, trying to figure out why I’m crying like this .

His throat bobs but he doesn’t look away. “Did someone fucking do this to you, princess?”