“For your own good.”

Outrage rushed through her. “You—you decided that I would be better off without you. You made that decision. Not us.”

He snorted. He may as well have said duh. “Look at how it all worked out.”

Goddamn him. “You think this is all because of you? That because you threw me away, it allowed me to flower into the woman I am today?”

Silence. Oh, the arrogant prick.

“How does your big fat head not fall off?”

A hint of a smile on his lips greeted that. “I think getting out from under your father’s thumb was good for you. We were kids, half formed, clueless about who we were. You needed to experience the world. Earn your ink.” He waved a hand around the shop, the supposed fulfillment of all her dreams. “If we’d stayed together, what would have happened? You were talking about switching to a college in Chicago or taking a year off. Already compromising yourself, maybe your future, for nothing.”

Nothing? She would have had him, her serious boy with the shocking blue eyes. Beck was all she had needed back then.

“It wasn’t your choice to make,” she gritted out.

“Get real, Darcy. With me, you’d have been making happy noises while shriveling up inside because you didn’t get out there. Travel, learn, be. I was never going to leave Chicago. You would have hated me eventually.”

“And I hated you anyway.”

“Yep,” he said, and then he smiled again, a little sadly.

Confusion swirled in her chest, stopping to grasp at her heart with icy fingers. Since reconnecting with Beck, she had shied away from thinking about how they parted. Really thinking about it. Because if she truly gave that awful time the mental space it deserved, she’d remember the heartache and how it felt to be pushed aside.

Now to hear that he played the ultimate decider on this—his trust in her so negligible that her opinion never entered the equation—sliced through her like a blade. She had loved him so much, but his version held no respect.

Only a need for control.

“So what’s changed? Don’t say you’re suddenly good enough for me now that I’m not the Gold Coast princess anymore.” She held up her palms, stained from the tools of her trade. “Have my manual labor hands knocked me off that lofty pedestal, Beck?”

He glowered. “Stop twisting what I’m saying. It’s not how you start, it’s where you end up. This is where we are now and it’s worth fighting for.”

She drew herself taller, which was surprisingly difficult when your heart had stopped working properly. Thanks to her father, she had been there, done that, bought the I ♥ Assholes mug. She had almost collapsed under the weight of Sam Cochrane’s controlling hand—and damned if she’d let any man do that to her again.

“Make sure you put Bacitracin on that tattoo. Every day for a week.”

He stared at her, the notch between his brows deeply pronounced. “Darcy, don’t shut down on me now. Not when we’re so close.”

“Tell me this,” she whispered. “If you had to do it all over again, would you make the same choice?”

“In a heartbeat.” No hesitation, not a moment to consider. Of course, swift, brutal decisions were his bread and butter on the job. Why would his life be any different?

She could barely push the words through her rapidly constricting throat. “Just forget you ever met me, Beck.”

“That’s not likely now, is it? And not just because of this.” He touched the bandage over his tat, then grasped her hand and targeted his heart with their tangled fingers. “You’re in here, princesa. It broke me to give you up but I stand by it. You left scorch marks that never healed. And I don’t want them to.”

She extracted her hand from the heated cocoon of his. Stepped back. Inhaled . . . a shallow breath, because deep at this moment was impossible.

“Just go,” she choked out, turning her back on him like she had on her father, on her whole charmed life, all those years ago. Only back then, taking a stand had been the first step in Darcy becoming strong. Now, when ten seconds later the door to the parlor clicked shut, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so weak.

chapter

9

Coffee shops. The last resort of the desperately single.” Mel cast her critical gaze around the busy Starbucks in Lincoln Square. “They used to be so promising. Now they’re filled with aspiring writers and wannabe day traders, frankly, the worst collection of talent I’ve come across in years.” Sighing, she sipped her skinny latte and eyed Darcy from beneath her golden lashes. “But that’s not why we’re here, is it.”

Darcy poked at the chocolate croissant she had bought in a fit of pessimism five minutes ago. Her third since walking into the aromatic, supposedly calming interior of the popular coffee place with Mel. Between the holiday excess and this Beck business, it looked like she’d be making her grand exit from the city ten pounds chunkier than when she arrived three months ago.

Or maybe all that extra weight could be attributed to her heavy heart.

“Well, I’d love to see you settled before I leave Chicago¸” Darcy said with fake cheer. Her disinterested gaze drifted to a salt-and-pepper-haired professorial type reading an actual newspaper. “Elbow Patches seems nice.”

“Lives with his mother.”

Undeterred, Darcy tried again. “That guy with the hipster hat and the sideburns is cute.”

“There are only so many microbrewery tours and ironic T-shirt shopping trips I can fit into my schedule.” Mel’s pixie features turned kindhearted. “Quit stalling. Time to discuss the man of the hour—or should I say the decade?”

Darcy gave her most Continental shoulder shrug, perfected during her time in Paris. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Right.” Mel stared Darcy down. “So how’s this going to end, D?”

The end was a done deal. Seven years ago. Again, two days before when she discovered Beck had cut her out of the decision to take the road to Splitsville. More men taking care of business for their women. Her father, Preston Collins, François, every guy she’d ever dated, really, and now Beck. She almost rolled her eyes at the canyon of self-pity his actions had opened up. Her heart was set to deluded, and now she wanted to wallow in her own stupidity for a while.

“It’s not going to end with me forgiving him.”

“Hmm. Men are just manipulating douche canoes,” Mel said in sympathy.

“Testify.”

“They leave the toilet seat up, can barely walk and chew gum at the same time—”

“Act like they know best,” Darcy cut in, getting warmed up.

“That’s their problem. They think they know best, but in this case . . . I have to agree.”

Darcy was stunned. “I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”

Mel blew out an oh-girlfriend sigh. “It was a long time ago and he was crazy about you. That’s gotta count for something.”

Darcy didn’t doubt Beck’s feelings for her all those years ago, but it was tainted, corrupted, ruined, by his high-handed behavior. What gave him the right to ride solo on such an important decision?

“I’ve spent the last few years building myself up. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t respect me. Who pays lip service to the notion of my strength but wants to pull the lever behind the curtain.”

“Like your dad.”

“What?”

“You know.”

She did. Every man who crossed her path was assessed with the checklist: was he bossy, manipulative, demanding, in any way like Sam Cochrane? One tick was enough to scuttle any potential relationship. But at the same time, she was drawn to decisive, confident men. Men like Beck who knew what they wanted and fought with gloves on, fists raised, to make it a reality.

So sue her for being a girly mass of contradictions.

“You had to give him my address,” she said faintly, not quite ready to capitulate to common sense.