They’d gotten so comfortable. So easily forgotten why they’d been together in the first place. He’d let it get that way. Taken that beautiful body for granted. Fucked up, like he always had.

Now was going to be different.

He waited until the other woman disappeared. The room was mostly empty anyway. This was his moment.

He had been hovering in the shadows, just out of her line of sight. Just when he moved toward her, pulling the invitation out of his suit pocket, another person entered the room at a near run and collided with Andrea.

Clay’s feet stalled.

Bad Suit.

He wrapped his arms around Andrea’s waist, hoisted her into the air, and swung her around in a circle. She laughed against him and clung on to keep herself steady.

Fuck, she looks fucking ecstatic.

Happier than Clay had seen her in a real long time.

Bad Suit set her back down on her feet, and she steadied herself against his chest. He was speaking animatedly about something. The grin on her face just grew and grew.

Clay heard her cry out, “Oh my God!”

And then her hands wrapped around his shoulders and clung on to him for dear life.

Pain like nothing he’d ever known stabbed him in the heart. He staggered back a step, unable to believe what he was seeing. He clutched the invitation tight in his hand, the paper crumbling in his death grip.

She’d moved on.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Liz had been right. What the fuck am I doing here?

He was just going to cause Andrea more trouble. Just going to fuck everything up for her. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted to go over there and punch the living daylights out of that guy. But he wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want him here.

He tortured himself, imagining her running back to him as soon as her things were out of their place. Him helping her change the locks. Running through Europe together to find new art pieces. Fucking.

Fuck.

Clay took a step backward. Andrea turned her head in his direction, as if sensing that he was there. For a moment, he wanted to let her see that he was there…to let her know that he now knew. But he’d promised he wouldn’t ruin this for her. And, before she could catch a glimpse of him, he darted out of the room.

His chest was heaving as he walked purposefully back through the art exhibit, through the crowds of people, and past the bar line that was still holding strong.

Just as he reached the exit, he realized he was still holding the invitation. The one chance he’d thought he had to win her back. Without another look, he tossed the invitation onto the top of the trash can before leaving the gallery and Andrea behind.

As soon as he got to his car, he headed straight to his favorite bar. Forget giving up booze. Forget giving up women. Forget broadening my horizons and looking forward to a new life. He just wanted to get black-out drunk and forget he’d ever been this much of a pussy.

He pulled out his phone and blindly dialed Gigi’s number. He didn’t even know why. He could have called the guys. They were his normal crew when he wanted to get hammered, but he wasn’t feeling up to dealing with their idiocy tonight.

Gigi answered right away. “Hey, how did it go?” she asked on the other line.

“Like shit.”

“Eesh. That’s not good. Are you okay? What are you doing now?”

“Bar,” he stated plainly, ignoring the other question. “You want to meet me?”

“That’s not such a good idea.”

“It’s the only idea.”

“Drunk in a bar in your current mood is bad news bears. Why don’t you just come over here? We can talk about it.”

“Don’t really want to talk.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “Then, I have alcohol here.”

“Whiskey?” he croaked.

“Yeah. I have a bottle lying around here somewhere.”

“All right. Where’s your apartment?”

“It’s near Dupont Circle. I’ll text you the address, but be safe. You sound super pissed.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Gigi’s apartment was situated in the middle of a trendy neighborhood downtown. He could see why she lived here. Not too far from the office, but close enough to walk to anything she could really need.

He walked up the steps to the second-floor apartment and knocked on the door. She answered almost immediately. The place was extremely neat and tidy with a lot of clean, modern furniture. It was clear she didn’t spend a lot of time in the place. The girl worked too much.

“Hey,” she said, shutting the door behind him. “I found a bottle of Jack. Hope that’s all right. I know you prefer Crown.”

“That’s fine,” he said.

Clay turned around, and his stare pinned her where she was standing.

“What’s up?” she asked cautiously.

But he didn’t answer. He just walked her backward until her back hit the front door. He dropped his mouth down on top of hers and kissed her. Desperately, hungrily, with no thought for consequences or repercussions.

Gigi pushed hard against Clay’s chest hard, and her breath was coming out in spasms. When he looked at her, her brown eyes were as big as saucers. His hands were on either side of her head, caging her in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouted at him. “You can’t just do that! That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

“Gigi—”

“No!”

She shoved him aside and started pacing the room in the same way he’d seen her do a hundred times while she was trying to work out a problem. Clearly, he was the problem.

“This is not who I am. And this is not what this is.”

“Then, go to the gala with me.”

“What? Ugh! No!” she nearly spit. “I’m not going to that stupid party with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you and I are bad news. We’re way too goddamn similar in personality, and you’d drive me fucking crazy. You already drive me crazy. It’d never work. Plus,” she cried, “you’re still head over heels for your ex, who I happen to think is in the right here. You just went to see her, and it clearly didn’t go well, so you’re taking that out on me, which, I might add, is not fair!”

“She’s with someone else,” Clay admitted, finally letting the weight of what he’d witnessed settle on his shoulders.