Page 13 of Mr. Brightside

Oh God. I didn’t just screw up. I might have ruined everything.

I figured he’d be curious about what I had to say. I never imagined he’d have specific expectations when he walked through my door.

But he’s not wrong. I did lay it on thick to ensure he showed up. This is on me.

“Listen, Cory…”

He’s got his head turned away with his gaze set on the door. My heart pounds double time as I recognize the threat. He could very well walk out that door and not give me another thought.

Desperate to get his attention, I stand and gently try to turn his face toward me. He lets me touch him, but he won’t meet my gaze.

“Hey,” I whisper, running my hand from his jaw down his neck until I’m clasping his shoulder. “You’re right. I screwed this up. I implied I wanted something sexual from you. And while that’s certainly not a lie…” I give him a playful once-over, gliding my hand from his shoulder back up the side of his neck. He’s still wearing his heathered blue work shirt, but I move past the neckline in a caress. His skin is soft and warm under my palm, tempting in a way I can’t let myself feel right now. “It’s not the primary concern for me right now.”

I wait with bated breath to see how he’ll react. I’m good at reading people—I have to be, given my occupation. The best bartenders have steady hands, endless patience, and perfectly tuned intuition.

Right now, my gut says that Cory feels rejected, and there’s a serious chance he’ll shut down because of it. I can’t let the rejection fester or it’ll only make it harder to claw out of this hole I’ve dug for myself.

“Co-ry,” I try, extending his name for emphasis. I risk moving my hand to his cheek, cupping his face and tilting his head until he’s looking at me. “Talk to me. What are you thinking?”

He shudders under my touch—just slightly. Only enough that I notice because I’m scrutinizing him with such intensity. I wait with bated breath, desperate for him to give me something to work with.

“I’m thinking I made a mistake coming here tonight.”

Oof. He’s looking right at me now, his eyes boring into my soul, letting me see, without a shadow of a doubt, the truth behind his words.

I believe him.

But I’m not done trying.

“Not a mistake,” I correct with false confidence. “An opportunity. An answer. A chance for you to finish your degree, pay off student loans, set yourself up for whatever comes after school, and be financially set for life. What are your dreams, Cory? What do you want most?”

Chapter 8

Cory

WhatdoIwantmost? Until two minutes ago, the answer was him. I wanted to be dripping in sweat while his hips drove me into a mattress until I reached blackout-level bliss.

What I wanted most was to get off. Now what I want most is to get out of here.

I showed up tonight ready to get laid. To forget about everything going on in my life. To let myself get lost in him.

Now my mind is working overtime to keep up.

Jake Whitely just asked me to marry him.

The tip of his thumb grazes just below my bottom lip as he traces it with his nail. His light hazel eyes are warm and sincere. Between his touch and his gaze, I relax a little. It’s like he’s got me in a trance, and I find myself processing—and maybe even considering—what he’s asking.

But herein lies the heart of the issue: I could have a one-night-stand with Jake Whitely. Even though it’s out of character for me, I was able to play it cool when we hooked up in the past. Hell, I could probably even manage a friends-with-benefits relationship if I kept my emotions in check. But I’m a sucker for commitment and powerless when it comes to this guy’s magnetic pull. The prospect of a committed relationship with a man I’ve been crushing on for the last several years is likely more than my heart can handle.

I know my own heart. And the emotional baggage I carry from all the times things didn’t work out with guys I really liked. I can’t do this. Which is why I shock the shit out of myself when I open my mouth and say, “Be honest with me, Jake. Tell me exactly what you’re asking of me and why.”

He must sense he’s been given an opening because he drops his hand from my face and straightens his spine. I miss his touch the moment he cuts off contact.

“Okay. I can do that. I’ll tell you everything. But you have to swear to keep this to yourself. I need you to promise, Cory. Promise me you won’t repeat what I’m about to say.”

I nod my head, curious and a little scared.

“Mike has to sell Clinton’s and The Oak.”