“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why would you do such a hurtful thing?” Her eyes shimmered with tears.
“Brontë,” he said, his voice soft. He moved to draw her into his arms, but she stiffened and pulled away. He’d made a mistake, then. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I’m not embarrassed by you.”
“Then why give me the diner? I never said I wanted it.”
“It was a test,” he confessed.
“A test?” Her voice rose an octave in response. “A test? What sort of test?”
He remained silent at that.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. You think I’m after your money. Like Danica. Is that it? You’re testing me to see if I want it.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” she said bitterly.
“I love you, Brontë.”
“You do now,” she bit out. “Now that you realize I don’t want your money. Well, news flash, Logan. You can’t withhold love as a reward. You either love someone or you don’t. Money plays no part in this.”
“Money always plays into things, Brontë. That’s not fair—”
“You’re not being fair,” she said, viciously slamming her suitcase shut. “And I hate to say it, but Danica was right.”
“Danica doesn’t have anything to do with this—”
“No? She told me that you treat everything like a business transaction. And silly me, I thought she was wrong.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, driving a knife into his gut. “It turns out she was right after all.”
She moved to the dresser and pulled out a blue velvet case—the necklace case. She looked at it and her lip curled, almost in disgust, and she held it out to him. “Take this.”
“It’s yours.”
Brontë shook her head. “I don’t want it. I told you I didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.” When she held it out again and he didn’t reach for it, she tossed it on the bed as if it were garbage and pulled out the handle of her suitcase.
“Brontë,” he said, trying to take the suitcase from her. “We need to talk about this—”
“No,” she said, and her voice broke a little. “We don’t need to talk. You’ve said enough. Good-bye, Logan.”
She pushed past him and headed out the front door, rolling the suitcase behind her.
“Brontë—”
“No,” she repeated. “Don’t make this ugly, Logan.”
And she turned and left. He watched her go, his mind seething with turmoil. She wasn’t willing to listen to reason right now. She was furious—and she had every right to be, he supposed—but he wasn’t going to give up. Somehow, he’d get her to talk to him again. He’d explain his side of the story, and then they’d hash things out. Kiss and make up.
And then he could tell her he loved her like he should have—with no strings attached.
He went back to the room she’d emptied and stared at the discarded necklace box. I told you didn’t want it, and you pushed it on me.
It seemed like he’d pushed and pushed until she’d finally broken. Damn it. There had to be a way to fix this.
Chapter Ten
Brontë dashed down the street, ignoring the people around her. The suitcase dragged behind her on tiny wheels, slowing her down, but she didn’t care. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, and her heart felt like a burning hole in her chest.
Logan wanted her to make something of herself.
The words made her sick. He didn’t like who she was. He thought she was a joke. Worse, someone to be embarrassed of.
Well, screw that, and screw him, she thought, dashing the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand. A subway station appeared down the street, and she headed for it, needing a sense of purpose. Somewhere to go. Anywhere.
Of course, when she got into the station itself, she swiped the MetroCard she’d gotten with Audrey while shopping and then realized that she had nowhere to go. She frowned and took a seat on one of the benches, staring in dismay at a nearby map of subway interchanges. She’d been so content, wrapped up in her little cocoon that Logan had created for her, that she hadn’t even bothered to sightsee in the city she’d been so excited to visit. No Statue of Liberty, no Guggenheim, nothing. All she’d done was go shopping and attend a party.
And spend hours in Logan’s bed, being pleasured out of her mind, she corrected herself.
Except he didn’t want her. Not really. Brontë the waitress was embarrassing. He needed her to be Brontë the small business owner so he could retain his billionaire street cred or something. She sighed in humiliation and hugged the suitcase closer to her as someone sat down on the far end of the bench.
And here she was, stranded all over again. Except this time, there wasn’t an elevator or a hurricane or a handsome man to keep her company. This time she was stuck in New York City with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, her heart broken into a hundred pieces.
She could always go straight to the airport. Call this little vacation quits, admit defeat, and return home. Of course, then she’d have to find another job. Logan was her new boss, after all. She wouldn’t be able to stay at the diner knowing that at any moment he could come through that door and insist that she talk to him again. So. New job. It was a shame. She liked her coworkers.
Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She’d lost the man she loved, lost her job, and was stuck in a strange city. Had she ever been lower? Tears welled in her eyes.
Music began to play at the far end of the station, and she automatically looked up. A man stood by a pillar, his violin case open, his soft song echoing in the tunnel. Someone passed by and dropped a dollar, barely even looking, but Brontë was entranced.
She was sitting in New York City, and she hadn’t even explored the place. “Adventure is worthwhile,” she told herself. Aristotle had it right. Why not visit all the places in New York City that she wanted to see before going home? A thought occurred to her, and she pulled out her phone, flipping through the list of numbers. She dialed a recent one.
“Audrey Petty,” the woman on the line answered promptly.
“Audrey? It’s me, Brontë.”
“Brontë?” The other woman sounded confused for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”