Coldhearted King: Chapter 2

My fork clatters onto my plate. “What are you saying?”

Paul winces, his dark eyes darting around the intimate restaurant to make sure I haven’t drawn anyone’s attention. When he realizes no one is looking, he reaches across the table and clasps my hand. “I like you, Delilah. A lot. But things have changed, and I just don’t feel as if we’re in a position to progress our relationship.”

“By things have changed, do you mean because I’m on your team now? Because you told me nothing would change when you took over as project manager.”

He sits back in his chair. “And I didn’t think it would. In fact, I thought it would be a good thing because we could spend more time together. It hasn’t turned out that way, though. I see how hard you work, Delilah, and I know how driven you are. But even though we’re working side by side every day, our relationship hasn’t moved forward the way I wanted it to.”

“Is it because we haven’t had sex yet?” I say in a low voice that wobbles only a little. “Because when I told you I wanted to wait, you said you were okay with that.”

Frustration flashes across Paul’s face, but he smooths it away. “And I was okay with it. I understand what happened to your mother, but it’s been three months and I don’t get what more you want from me before we take that step. You’re twenty-four. You’re not a teenager like she was, for god’s sake.” His voice has been gradually rising, and people’s heads are turning. He lets out a slow breath before continuing. “If you were committed to this relationship, we would already be sharing that kind of intimacy. As it is, sometimes I think you’re more passionate about your career than you are about me.”

“That’s not . . .” I shake my head, guilt tugging at my chest because I can’t deny what he’s suggesting. Mom conceived me when she was eighteen, and it’s made me cautious. It’s his other comment I choose to address, though. “I have to work hard, Paul. There are a lot of eyes on me in the office. I need to put in twice as much effort as everyone else because no one is sure they can trust me to do the job when I got my license at such a young age.”

“I understand that.” His voice is sharper now. “And I admire your dedication to architecture, I do. I want more, though. At this stage in a relationship, I need more. And I’m not sure you can give it to me. As much as I like you, I think it’s better if we end things now when we’re not so emotionally involved that we can’t maintain an amicable working relationship. Particularly given my new position and how important the current project is.”

Tears sting the backs of my eyes. “It’s nice to know you’re not emotionally invested enough to be bothered about our breakup.”

Paul reaches forward to take my hand. “That’s not what I meant. Look, I really wanted this relationship to work. You know that. I even waited until you received your licensure before asking you out because I knew how focused you were.” He squeezes my fingers. “I’m just as disappointed as you that things haven’t worked out.”

Part of me doubts that. Paul is—was, now, I guess—my first actual relationship. Which sounds crazy, considering my age. But becoming a licensed architect at twenty-four didn’t come easy. I spent so many years focusing on my studies, interning every spare moment, then challenging myself to start my licensure exams straight after graduation. I didn’t have time for a boyfriend.

When I received my license only ten months after graduating, I thought I could ease up. I thought I could start to enjoy more of the things other women my age did, like going out, dating, and, yes, finally having sex. But on top of still feeling the need to prove myself to my older, mostly male colleagues on a daily basis, letting go has been harder than I expected. Relaxing enough to step outside the comfort zone I’ve studied myself into and sleep with Paul has been . . . difficult.

The newly purchased teal lingerie I’m wearing under my best little-black-dress suddenly binds uncomfortably around my meticulously de-fluffed body. Tonight would have been the night I finally stopped overthinking things, but there’s not a chance in the world I’ll admit that to Paul now.

I make eye contact with the woman at the table next to me. She shoots me a sympathetic look, and I avert my eyes. Can everyone in the restaurant tell what’s happening at this little table for two? A combination of hurt and humiliation swirls in my stomach, and I blink back tears as I stare down at my half-eaten pasta. “I can’t believe you decided to break it off with me while we’re out to dinner. Did you think I would make a scene? Was this your way of making sure I didn’t?”

Paul’s gaze darts around the room before reluctantly meeting mine again. “No, that’s not why. I didn’t plan this. But you were talking about your concepts for the project, and you looked so damn passionate that I realized I’m not okay with waiting for you to share some of that passion with me.”

I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. “Right,” I whisper.

“I am sorry, Delilah. Let’s just finish our meal, and then I’ll take you home. On Monday, we can both be adults about this and work together to get our proposal finalized.”

The emotion bubbles up in my chest, made mostly of disappointment and frustration—with Paul and myself. “Actually, I’m not hungry anymore. You stay here and finish. I’ll get a ride home.”

“Come on, Delilah. Don’t be like that. We can still be friends and have a meal together, surely.”

“Maybe we can at some point, but not tonight. I just want to go home.”

He huffs out a breath, which manages to make me feel like I’m being childish. “Fine. But the least I can do is drive you home.”

Being stuck in a car with him is the last thing I want. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to be on my own right now. I have my phone; I’ll call a rideshare.” Before Paul can argue further, I shove back my chair and stand.

Paul’s brow puckers, and he stands too, but I turn and rush from the table before he can say anything else. I push through the door of the restaurant, wondering if I should have paid before leaving. But it’s only a fleeting worry. It’s the least Paul can do, considering what just happened.

My heels clack at a rapid tempo as I make my way down the street, clutching my phone in my hand and dodging oncoming people. I want to get away from the restaurant so I don’t have to stand outside and risk facing Paul while waiting for my lift. When I think I’m far enough to avoid him if he leaves, I raise my phone to open the app. A dark wooden door swings open next to where I’m loitering, and a couple bursts out of it, distracting me. They’re laughing, and before the door swings shut, the sound of music and the murmur of conversation drifts out. I peer through the heavily tinted windows.

A bar.

Standing there in my sexy dress and my strappy heels and my beautiful lingerie, having just been dumped, I suddenly don’t want to slink home like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. I want to have a drink. If my roommate Alex was home, I’d buy a bottle of wine and take it back to our cozy little apartment to drown my sorrows with her. But she’s at a concert with her boyfriend, and I no longer like the idea of being alone.

Trying not to overthink it, I push open the door and enter the dim space. The first thing that hits me is the distinct aroma of beer and whiskey, with an underlying hint of wood polish and leather. When my vision adjusts to the limited lighting, I make out various individuals sitting at tables and clustered around a long wooden bar. That’s what I make a beeline toward.

After finding a vacant high-backed stool next to a dark-haired man in a white business shirt, I throw myself down on it while fighting back my tears.

It’s not that I’m heartbroken—Paul and I weren’t dating long enough for me to fall for him—but I liked him, and I thought that would eventually grow into more. That liking would be enough for now.

But I was wrong.

I get the bartender’s attention, and perhaps seeing the expression on my face, he hustles over. Just as I’m about to order my customary glass of white wine, I catch myself. This situation calls for something stronger. “Whiskey. On the rocks.”

One of his brows twitches upward. Probably because I don’t look like the typical hard-liquor type of girl. And I’m not. But what the hell? Overthinking and caution are what got me here. Rather than questioning my decision-making skills, the man merely nods, grabs a half-full bottle of amber liquid from one of the shelves behind him, and pours an inch or so into a tumbler. He places it in front of me and I smile my thanks, pick it up, and down it in one go.

Oh god, it burns. I gasp and shudder, then cough a little. The bartender’s amused gaze catches me off guard, but I don’t care that he’s laughing at me. “Another one, please.”

This time, his brows shoot up. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” I say, then laugh. Damn, am I tipsy already? I drank a glass of wine at dinner before Paul decided we’re better off as . . . friends? Colleagues? Who knows.

The bartender bites back a grin and pours for me. “You want me to set up a tab?”

I’m about to tell him what a great idea that is when a smooth, deep voice comes from next to me. “Not if she’s here on her own.”