“We all screw up.”
“Yes, but I pushed you out. You called to cancel, and I understand why, but in my head, I made it out to be more than it was and then, of course, I felt like an idiot when you told me the real reason. I was too embarrassed to admit I was being selfish and . . . I’ll stop myself now.”
“Please. Continue.” I settle back into my couch. “I like hearing you talk.”
“Slade.”
Christ. Her voice. My name.
“I apologize that I didn’t give you more. I was flustered and left my phone in my locker. You deserved an explanation.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything. It’s my fault. Totally my fault. I’m supposed to be the new Blakely, but when I heard a woman laugh in the background, I immediately—”
“I’m not Paul. Far fucking from it.” And the truth comes out. How did I not see that before? She thought I was making excuses, which I can understand given her history. Understandably she’s insecure and maybe drew the conclusion that I had moved on. Doesn’t she get I don’t think I could move on? Hell, I’m having a hard enough time just trying to get through an hour without looking at my phone hoping she’ll call.
“I know you aren’t.”
“And the lady who laughed was the florist who I was buying flowers for you from.”
“Oh.” There’s that sound I love that she makes. “I don’t want flowers—I mean, I like them, but I don’t need flowers.”
“Unless they are peonies?”
Her laugh is quiet before she says, “Except peonies.”
Even though she doesn’t say anything else, I can hear her smile over the silence.
“What is it that you do want, Blakely?”
“You.” She makes a strangled sound. “I mean to see you. Like so I can fulfill my end of the deal we made.”
You.
Her first response was the right one.
It’s the same goddamn one I have.
Question is, what does that mean in the scheme of things?
“I think I can manage that,” I say playfully. “In fact, it would be the highlight of my week.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm. Meet me where we first met. Seven o’clock. This Friday night.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
I end the call, toss my cell onto the couch beside me, and close my eyes.
I’m fucking exhausted, but hell if that didn’t just make everything all better.
She called.
Thank fuck for that.
Blakely
My breath catches when I see him sitting there. He has on the same black T-shirt and dark jeans that he was wearing the first time we met.
I put a hand to my stomach where butterflies take flight and know it’s now or never.
With my other hand on my purse and the napkin inside, I make my way to the bar and slide onto the barstool beside him, smiling when I notice the whiskey the bartender sets in front of me.
He remembered.
I want to look at him, just drink him in and make up for all the lost time, but instead, I keep looking straight ahead as I take a sip, my heart beating a million miles a minute.
“Now that’s a drink,” Slade says beside me. “I would have pegged you for a red wine type of girl.” His knee bumps against mine. “Or is that whiskey?”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur.
“Rough day, then.”
“Rough week, actually.”
It’s taking everything I have not to turn to him and see those eyes and that smile of his.
“What happened? Did your boss piss you off?”
“I am the boss now.”
“Impressive,” he murmurs. “Your car break down?”
“Nope.” I take another sip. “I told my ex off the other day. That was a bright spot in the week.”
I feel his body jolt beside me, but I keep looking ahead, keep playing this game because there is so much I need to say to him, but I know the minute I turn to him all that’s going to come out is I’ve fallen in love with him . . . and he deserves to hear it all.
“He probably deserved it.”
“He did, but he isn’t worth wasting my breath on.”
“Smart lady.” He hangs his head and chuckles. I see him in my periphery, and my fingers itch to reach out and touch him. “So, it isn’t the job or the car or the ex . . . may I ask what it is that made your week so rough?”
“You see, I met this guy.” I finally turn to face him, and what I thought would happen, happens. My words slip away—hell, the world slips away—when our eyes meet just like that first night. Back then, my loss of words was because he was strikingly handsome and I wondered why in the hell he was talking to me. Now I know there is so much more to him than his looks, and I don’t want him to stop talking to me.
He offers me a lopsided smile. “Lucky guy.”
“That depends how you look at it,” I murmur, afraid to look away and miss one more second of everything about him.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I met this guy. He was pushy and handsome and so goddamn nice that I couldn’t say no to him when he insisted he spend time with me. He was unexpected and not even on my radar. He brought out sides of me I never knew I had, and . . . and now, I’m not sure what to do about him.”
“What’s there to worry about if you like him?” He angles his head to the side as he braces his hand on the back of my barstool. His thumb rubs up and down over my bare shoulder, sending electric currents through my every nerve.
“There’s everything to worry about.” I chuckle when all I want to do is reach out and touch him in turn.
“Like?”
“Like how I tell him I like him more than I should. Like how I keep thinking about him and how much fun we have and wondering if that’s what it would always be like. Then I worry if our connection was so strong simply because we were removed from reality
