Here’s the problem with being 6’6 and weighing 280 pounds:

It takes a lot of fucking effort to get drunk.

Forget about beer. I’d have to drink gallons of the stuff, just to catch a buzz. And even then, it’s hard to keep. One good piss and I’m back to square one.

I’m convinced that’s why God invented whiskey.

After I dropped Jessica off, I headed back to the office and dug in. Yanked off my jacket and tie and kicked off my shoes. Poured myself a double and paced while I drank, unable to get Tess out of my head.

How good she looked.

How much I want her.

Love her.

None of that matters, asshole, because no matter how much you love her, you don’t deserve her.

You never did.

Fuck.

I lift the bottle to my mouth and take a commiserating drink. I abandoned the glass, and all pretense of civility, about an hour ago.

Used to be simple.

If I saw something I wanted, I took it.

Didn’t matter what it was or who it belonged to.

Tess changed all that.

She changed me.

Sometimes I hate her for it.

Most of the time I just miss her like crazy.

Right now it happens to be both.

So, when I hear someone cop-knock on the door of my Fortress of Solitude, I know exactly who it is and I’m both relieved and pissed off that she’s standing on the other side of the door when I answer it.

“Why?” She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t scream. Lash out or attack. Tess just stands there, gaze aimed at my throat like she knows she has to look at me but doesn’t want to risk eye-contact.

Her one-word question rings in my ears.

Why?

She could be asking me about anything.

Why I’m marrying Jessica.

Why I keep stealing her cat.

Why I can’t seem to leave her alone.

I don’t answer her. I just step away from the doorway to give her room to pass through it.

When she’s on the other side of it, I shut us both in and lock the door.

She doesn’t protest.

She just stands there and waits for me to answer her question and I can’t. Not without opening a door neither of us can afford to step through.

Instead I do what I do.

I deflect.

“Why what, Tesla?” I say, moving away from the door. Into the kitchen area to get her a glass. I plunk it down on the counter and tip my half-empty bottle over its rim. “I imagine most everything I’ve done over the past nine years presents a bit of a mystery to you, so you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.” I lean to the side to open my freezer. Fishing out an ice cube, I slip it into her glass before sliding it toward her, across the counter.

Jesus. Did I say she looks good?

She doesn’t look good.

She looks like a revelation.

A dream.

Like every good thing I’ve ever wanted but never deserved.

She comes toward me and lifts her fist. Opening it, she drops something on the counter next to the glass of whiskey I just poured her. “You should’ve asked Anton for the receipt.”

Shit.

“Don’t be mad at Henley.” I shake my head, not even looking at the balled-up piece of paper. “I manipulated her into it. Blackmailed her. She didn’t want to, but I—”

“Why?”

We’ve circled back to that.

“Tes—”

“Why?” She takes a step toward me, fists still clenched but held low at her sides. I wish she’d raise them. I wish she’d hit me. Scream. Fight. I can handle that Tess. I can lie to her. Push her away.

This Tess, with her wide hazel eyes and trembling jaw, lays me open. Pulls the truth out of me so fast and clean, I don’t even realize what I’m saying is true until it’s too late to reel it in.

“Because when I saw you in it, for that split second before you saw me, you were smiling. You looked happy and I wanted to see it again—” I lift a hand and swipe it over my face, trying to smother the truth. Stop it from slipping out. “I wanted to be the reason you were smiling, even if you didn’t know it. Even if it was aimed at someone else.”

She stares at me like I just slapped her. Eyes wide. Lips parted slightly. Chest heaving. “You can’t just—” Her jaw goes tight and she looks away from me. Closes her mouth to breathe through her nose, deep and slow, like she’s trying to keep herself under control. I wish she wouldn’t. I wish she’d let go. Watching her struggle is killing me but when she looks at me again, her gaze is narrowed but dry. Angry but restrained. “You don’t get to say things like that to me. Not anymore.”

I feel my own jaw tense at her tone. “If you don’t want the truth you shouldn’t ask for it, Tesla,” I tell her and her gaze flashes hot at my tone. Condescending, bordering on arrogant.

She tips her face up to glare at me. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” I lean into her, my face hovering above hers, and shake my head. “You want to hate me. That’s not really the same thing, is it?”

I think she’s going to hit me.

Pick up the drink I poured her and throw it in my face.

When she takes a step back and reaches down to take off one of her spiked heels, I expect to get the business end of it in my eye socket.

She tosses it aside.

Reaches down and takes off the other and tosses that one too.

“What are you doing?” My mouth goes dry when she gives me a sly little smile and reaches for the zipper keeping her dress closed.

“Giving you your dress back,” she says, catching the tongue of the zipper between her fingers to pull it down. She shrugs her shoulder and it slips down, skimming over her hips to pool softly at her feet.

I’m not sure how much the lingerie cost but whatever it was, it was worth every goddamned penny. Strapless black lace cups her breasts. Skims around her ribcage. Follows the curve of her waist. The scrap of matching lace that hugs the gentle flare of her hips dips between her thighs to cover her pussy.

Jesus Christ.

I must’ve said it out loud. Either that or she really can read my mind because she smirks at me again.

“I left the tag on.” She steps out of it completely. Takes another step and this one closes the gap between us. “Maybe if you’re lucky, Anton will take it back.” She picks up the balled-up receipt and tucks it into the pocket of the dress shirt I’m wearing. “You probably want to hang on to that,” she says with a sweet smile, patting a hand against my chest. The heart that’s hammering away inside of it.

She’s walking away from me.

Defiant.

Brazen.

I’m so fucking hard it hurts.

I catch her at the door, her hand on the knob, about to turn the lock. I reach up, slapping a heavy palm against the door, caging her in. “I bought the rest of it too, remember?” I remind her, running a single fingertip down the length of her spine. “You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here, wearing what’s mine, you’re crazy.” I don’t sound like myself when I say it. At least not the me I try to be. I sound like him.

The Declan who destroyed her.

Because, right now, That’s exactly who I am.