I didn’t expect it to hurt, still. After all this time. For the sight of him to rip off the Band-Aid I’ve worn for years and make me bleed again.

I don’t love you…

I want to yell. I want to hide. And I hate hate hate that what I really want to do is cry, as if I haven’t cried enough for him already.

But all I can do is turn away and charge across the room, almost stumbling to get away, until I finally reach the kitchen. My eyes burn and I hate that they burn. I feel small and I hate that I feel small. I set down the tray, fumble through my pockets, and take out my phone.

Me: So Paul is at this gig I’m working…

Rachel: NOOOO! Gina, breathe. Don’t talk to him, don’t even look at him!!!

Me: I’m his waitress!

I wait for her reply, and it takes nearly a minute to appear on my screen.

Rachel: Gina…don’t be upset but, I told Saint I wanted to leave our event early to go support you, and guess who punched the table and shot out the door?

“Gina? What are you doing in here? Go back out there, please,” my boss snaps.

Hastily I tuck my phone away and hurry to refill my tray. With every glass I fill, I brace myself to go out there again. I fantasize about walking out and dumping the tray accidentally on Paul’s lap. Then I picture walking out with my best smile and…and what?

I exhale, balance the tray in one hand, and head to the main room.

I scan the area for Paul. I need to know where he is just to avoid him, but my gaze pauses on a tall man in the entrance, talking to my boss.

Shoulders a mile wide that taper down to a narrow waist and, as if that weren’t enough to stop you in your tracks, add to that a butt that seems to be held up by angels.

I take in the back of his full mane of blond hair and I know, my body knows—my heart leaps a little, my stomach tumbles, my skin pricks—that it’s Tahoe even before he shifts and lets me see his profile.

He’s in a crisp black evening suit. Dark black slacks, white button-down shirt, sharp gray tie. His lips look moist, and stained red. As if he was messing with someone not long ago. His blue eyes flare when he sees me and for the briefest instant, they flash protectively.

The event manager walks over to him. “Mr. Roth, we were told you were too busy to lead the gentlemen’s conference but it’s an absolute honor, please—”

“I’m not staying,” he growls, dismissing him.

Clearly this event was not as good as the other one Tahoe was attending with the Saints tonight.

Then I feel fingers on the small of my back, undoing the knot at the back of my apron. He speaks close to my ear. “You’re done here.” He lifts my apron off over my head, sets it aside, takes my tray and sets it down, and won’t heed any of my protests as he leads me out the door.

* * *

We’re in his car, heading to my place, and I’m barely holding myself together. I’m acting like it’s nothing. “Pretty arrangements, though not my color of choice for a gentlemen’s event.”

Tahoe has been silent the entire ride, letting me bluff it out as he stews a little bit too.

He jerks the gearshift almost angrily as he parks in my building’s underground lot, and I leap out of the car, surprised when I hear a second car door slam shut. Tahoe is at my heels boarding the elevator, walking—more like stalking—by my side as I head to my apartment door.

“Oh, wait! My keys. Ha!” I pull them out and jingle them noisily. I open the door, step inside and flip on the light switch. “Home sweet home. Ahh.”

I turn to fake-smile at him, but when I meet his concerned, furious blue eyes, my smile starts to tremble. The knot in my throat doubles in size, and I don’t know what it is about this man, I don’t know why seeing Paul made me feel so little and so unworthy, I don’t know why seeing Tahoe’s anger and frustration on my behalf makes my cheeks grow wet. One second I’m fine and the next, the tears are spilling.

He shuts the door behind him, his voice gruff with tenderness. “Come here,” he says.

He seizes my face and draws me close and his thumbs streak across my cheeks.

“He’s such an asshole,” I sniffle as he swipes my tears away. “Even now he acts like he was too—too—too good for me.”

He presses his lips together in anger and looks deeply into my eyes. His face grows blurry as the tears keep streaming. He leaves me for a moment to head into the kitchen, run the faucet to dampen a small clean towel, and head back to me.

“What are you…?” I protest as he runs the towel gently over my eyes. “You’re smearing my makeup—”

“No.” He cuts me off with a sly smirk and violently concerned eyes. “Your tears are.” He wipes my cheeks and under my eyes.

I fall still as the tears stop, and I notice the look of harsh tenderness on his face. “Did I…were you busy right now?” I croak.

“Yeah. Some event I was only too glad to get away from, trust me.”

It makes me realize his life is full of obligations as well, even if he’s rich.

He tosses the towel aside and just when I’m thankful he left on my lipstick, he starts wiping it off with his thumbs. One thumb scrapes over my lips to the right, the other thumb to the left. The knot in my throat starts burning with some new emotion, something other than pain, something I don’t understand amidst my panic of being completely makeup-less.

But I can feel the lipstick smearing over my cheeks as he gets it off my lips, and with every stroke, he seems to look more deeply into my eyes until I can feel the bareness of my lips.