“Yes.” No. Maybe. I honestly didn’t know. But I’d be damned if I gave in. She didn’t get to act all outraged after getting caught. Shouldn’t “sorry” be the first word out of her mouth?
“So you’re saying what happened is all due to you?” she demanded, her eyes flashing.
“Obviously!” A small voice in my head warned me I shouldn’t behave like I was taking credit for her success, but I ignored it. I was too pissed off. I hated that she’d acted like she didn’t need me to help with publicity—something I’d never offered to anybody else. Then she had gone behind my back and posted my picture anyway to promote herself. Maybe she’d demurred because she didn’t want to look like she was using me. She knew I despised that. But doing it behind my back wasn’t any better.
Her face crumpled for a moment, but I hardened myself. Tears, recrimination and accusations. I knew all the weapons in a woman’s arsenal.
“You’re such an asshole,” she said.
“Me?”
She opened a browser and navigated to the page in question. She deleted the post. “There. It’s gone. Happy now?”
But I wasn’t. I was too angry, too worked up because what she’d done brought back memories of other girlfriends. The unpleasant doubt—especially when I’d been so high and happy—tasted of ashes. And deleting the picture didn’t undo the fact that she’d used it. Used me. It stung. It was disappointing. And I felt like an idiot for believing what she’d said.
And I hated feeling like an idiot.
When I didn’t respond, she clenched her hands. “What do you want? Do you expect me to give you credit for everything I’ve done? My writing has nothing to do with you. I was a writer before you popped into my life, and I’ll continue to be a writer after. My accomplishments aren’t about you! You have nothing to do with it!”
“I don’t want credit,” I shot back, furious she was trying to reduce the reason for my anger to something so petty. “I just don’t want you to lie to me.”
“If you think I’m such a liar, why are you here? Get out!” She pointed at the door.
The exact same fucking repertoire. Caitlyn had done the same. The only difference between Caitlyn and Emily was that the latter wasn’t crying prettily.
I left, slamming the door behind me. But that didn’t do a thing to improve my mood. The bang as the door closed felt like a shot to my heart instead.
* * *
Emily
I stood in front of my laptop, shaking, my eyes glued to the door. I couldn’t believe Killian had yelled at me like that. Accused me of lying and using him.
All because of that picture.
Okay, so it looked bad. I didn’t know it had been posted. I hadn’t seen or heard about it, but I’d noticed that it was Mom who’d done it, since the account owner could see who had posted on their behalf. And I honestly didn’t know why she felt the need to post it, except… Well, she was a huge fan—of Killian, that was—and might’ve wanted to brag or something. Which wasn’t the smartest move.
But I was incredibly frustrated with Killian’s reaction. If he’d just asked me about it without being so nasty, I would’ve apologized. And talked to Mom and told her not to do it again. But when he got angry and then made it as though without that photo, my book would’ve languished, my temper had flared.
Because he was acting just like Dad.
I’d worked too hard to let a man make it about him. One lousy picture didn’t trump all the things I’d done—writing the book, and arranging and paying for promotion and publicity.
Bitter disappointment sat in my gut. Why had I thought he’d be different? Because Killian had kept saying the right things, done the right things and made me feel the right things?
Why hadn’t I learned they didn’t mean anything?
A hand over my forehead, I breathed out, muttering to myself. Then spotted the Dom that Killian had uncorked.
More than half the bottle remained, but I’d be damned if I was going to drink it. I’d taken it as a symbol of his faith in my ability, but that had been an illusion. He’d only wanted to buy it so he could look good. Like Dad had always done when he wanted to feign generosity.
I poured the rest of the champagne down the drain, washed the flutes and put them away. Through the kitchen window and trees, I could see his house. Another wave of
anger surged.
This was supposed to be my day to bask and glow. Instead, all I had left was disappointment, anger, resentment and self-hatred for thinking that he could ever be a real-life romance hero. He was just an asshole. A villain. The worst kind, too, because he wasn’t evil from the beginning. He made me think he could be different from all the rest…then showed his true colors when I realized I was in love with him.
Dick.