Bron, but the smug grin abruptly faded when he realized that last night he hadn’t remotely wanted any of the gorgeous sun-kissed women at that party—he’d wanted Bron.
In spite of the fact that he’d tried to hide it, she was the one his eyes followed as she flitted from friend to friend—mostly men, he’d noted— like a confident hummingbird from flower to flower. A sip of nectar here, an energetic stationary buzzing there. No wonder the other women had been so aloof with him. They must have picked up on his infatuation with Bron. Shit. Some wild man he was turning out to be. He slept with one woman and immediately developed warm feelings for her. What was wrong with him? This trip was supposed to be his chance to change. And he needed to change. He wouldn’t be made a fool of a second time in his life.
Throwing off the covers, he rose from bed and stalked to the shower. He was here in Sydney because Jen had asked him to take on this project—because he was the best at what he did. Oh, how he’d wanted to tell her to take the entire inventory of Crane surfboards and stuff them up her ass—or, better still, the ass of Cameron Crane. But if he did that, Jen would know she’d torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. No. He had his pride. Pride had held his emotions in control and his temper on a leash while Jennifer had explained, with a few tears, that she’d fallen in love with another man.
He’d been pretty cool about the breakup. Manly. He hadn’t railed or shouted, sobbed, or even thrown her unfaithfulness in her face. He wasn’t that kind of man. If any guy had ever let the woman he loved off the hook easier, that man was a saint. Of course, when she’d returned his ring and asked for his key to her apartment, he’d finally realized she was serious.
That night he’d gone on a bender that had likely done permanent damage to his liver. But even in the depths of drunkenness, he hadn’t slobbered his woes all over some poor bartender, or put anyone at risk by driving under the influence. Even as a drunk he was a rule-following do-gooder. And wouldn’t you think a woman would want a man like that? He mused as water pounded his body. Wouldn’t you think a woman—Jen for instance— would want to spend her life with a man who did his own ironing, supported feminism, and tried to be one of the good guys?
A wave of bitterness hit him so hard he ended up getting shampoo in his eye and cursing. What had being a decent, caring man got him? Dumped for a guy with a corny accent badly in need of a shave. Would Cameron Crane do his own ironing? He snorted to himself. Not hardly.
Well, the days of Saint Mark were over, he decided, as he dried off and dressed in crisp khakis and a freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt. Jen had warned him the Crane operation was casual, so he’d packed only one summer-weight suit, but nothing was going to make him dress like he’d pulled clothes at random from a thrift shop and then slept in them a few nights. He’d leave that sartorial elegance to Cameron Crane. The bastard.
His former fiancée and her new man were going to be in Sydney during the latter part of his trip. Maybe by the time she got here and saw him in the same room with that bastard, she’d realize what she’d given up in exchange for whisker burn, body odor, and a whole lot of cash. His plan was so hazy he was barely aware he had one. But he planned that when Jen got here, she’d see that her rejected fiancé was doing just fine and was living life to the fullest. If she saw him enjoying women like they were cigarettes and he was a chain-smoker, then she might pause one nanosecond to think about what she’d so blithely tossed away.
A few months with Cameron Crane might have made her realize all she was missing. She might beg clean-shaven, regularly showered, and crisply ironed Mark Forsythe and his much slimmer wallet to take her back. He smiled slightly as he packed up his laptop. Naturally,
In spite of the fact that he’d tried to hide it, she was the one his eyes followed as she flitted from friend to friend—mostly men, he’d noted— like a confident hummingbird from flower to flower. A sip of nectar here, an energetic stationary buzzing there. No wonder the other women had been so aloof with him. They must have picked up on his infatuation with Bron. Shit. Some wild man he was turning out to be. He slept with one woman and immediately developed warm feelings for her. What was wrong with him? This trip was supposed to be his chance to change. And he needed to change. He wouldn’t be made a fool of a second time in his life.
Throwing off the covers, he rose from bed and stalked to the shower. He was here in Sydney because Jen had asked him to take on this project—because he was the best at what he did. Oh, how he’d wanted to tell her to take the entire inventory of Crane surfboards and stuff them up her ass—or, better still, the ass of Cameron Crane. But if he did that, Jen would know she’d torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. No. He had his pride. Pride had held his emotions in control and his temper on a leash while Jennifer had explained, with a few tears, that she’d fallen in love with another man.
He’d been pretty cool about the breakup. Manly. He hadn’t railed or shouted, sobbed, or even thrown her unfaithfulness in her face. He wasn’t that kind of man. If any guy had ever let the woman he loved off the hook easier, that man was a saint. Of course, when she’d returned his ring and asked for his key to her apartment, he’d finally realized she was serious.
That night he’d gone on a bender that had likely done permanent damage to his liver. But even in the depths of drunkenness, he hadn’t slobbered his woes all over some poor bartender, or put anyone at risk by driving under the influence. Even as a drunk he was a rule-following do-gooder. And wouldn’t you think a woman would want a man like that? He mused as water pounded his body. Wouldn’t you think a woman—Jen for instance— would want to spend her life with a man who did his own ironing, supported feminism, and tried to be one of the good guys?
A wave of bitterness hit him so hard he ended up getting shampoo in his eye and cursing. What had being a decent, caring man got him? Dumped for a guy with a corny accent badly in need of a shave. Would Cameron Crane do his own ironing? He snorted to himself. Not hardly.
Well, the days of Saint Mark were over, he decided, as he dried off and dressed in crisp khakis and a freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt. Jen had warned him the Crane operation was casual, so he’d packed only one summer-weight suit, but nothing was going to make him dress like he’d pulled clothes at random from a thrift shop and then slept in them a few nights. He’d leave that sartorial elegance to Cameron Crane. The bastard.
His former fiancée and her new man were going to be in Sydney during the latter part of his trip. Maybe by the time she got here and saw him in the same room with that bastard, she’d realize what she’d given up in exchange for whisker burn, body odor, and a whole lot of cash. His plan was so hazy he was barely aware he had one. But he planned that when Jen got here, she’d see that her rejected fiancé was doing just fine and was living life to the fullest. If she saw him enjoying women like they were cigarettes and he was a chain-smoker, then she might pause one nanosecond to think about what she’d so blithely tossed away.
A few months with Cameron Crane might have made her realize all she was missing. She might beg clean-shaven, regularly showered, and crisply ironed Mark Forsythe and his much slimmer wallet to take her back. He smiled slightly as he packed up his laptop. Naturally,
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