Chapter 3 #2
“I’m sorry.” I raise a hand to my forehead and frown. “Who are you?”
“Rhett Cole,” he says again. “I thought maybe—”
“Oh.” I snap my fingers. “You’re on the billboard over on Twenty-Fifth.”
It’s his turn to frown. “No. I—”
“Oh, I know! You did an interview with that one guy on TV.”
He shakes his head. “Not me.”
“Are you sure? I swear, you look just like him.”
A wry chuckle slips out of his mouth, but he’s not smiling. “I’m sure.”
I shrug. “Sorry. Guess I don’t recognize you after all. Thanks for the help, though.”
God. As though I’m going to humiliate myself any further by explaining to Rhett fucking Cole that of course I know who he is and he should remember who I am, too.
Lifting my boxes once more, I pretend he no longer exists and move toward the exit. Fortunately, it has one of those old metal push bars, allowing me to leave without needing to fiddle with a knob, because it seems Mr. Cole has completed his gentlemanly duty for the day.
The door has just slammed shut behind me when I hear him yell. I keep walking.
“Wait,” he calls again, following me outside.
I shift the cartons in my arms a little higher and continue heading for the train station two blocks down.
He comes up beside me and matches me step for step. “Wait. Please.”
I don’t slow my pace. “Why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I have things to do.” Like look for a new job. And, if there’s time, remind myself of what an idiot I am.
“Pine Acres Summer Camp.”
My steps falter, and my eyes dart to his instinctively. “What?”
“I remember you.”
I halt, and he does the same. I’ve got to get rid of this guy. “Congratulations. Would you like a star?”
He winks—fucking winks at me—then says, “Already am a star, but thanks.” He reaches for the boxes in my arms. “Let me take these for you.”
“I’ve got them.” I tighten my grip on the cardboard.
He relents and rocks back on his heels. “I recognized you right away, but I’m bloody terrible with names.”
The fact that he feels the need to explain himself tells me everything I need to know. Rhett Cole may have been my first kiss eleven years ago, but I highly doubt I was his.
“I need to go.” If he expects me to help him out with my name, he’s about to be sorely disappointed.
“Please.” He stops me with a hand on my arm, singeing my bare skin. “I’d love to catch up.”
Catch up? With Rhett Cole? What would I even say? I married the wrong guy, picked the wrong career, and am currently considering whoring myself out to pay my rent?
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“We could grab a coffee.” His dark eyes twinkle as he directs that imploring gaze my way. God, is this how he lands women? They must throw themselves at him.
“I come with a lot of baggage.” I heft the boxes higher.
“Let me at least help you to your car with this stuff.”
“I’m taking the train,” I say, and nod in the direction of the station.
“With all of this shit?”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t have much choice, seeing as I don’t have a car.” It’s not like I can afford an Uber, but I’m definitely not telling him that. I take off down the street again.
He bolts ahead of me and stops, blocking my way. His fingers dive into his thick hair, shoving it off his forehead. “Give me that stuff. I’ll take you home.”
A short laugh bursts from my throat. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“I don’t know anything about you. For all I know, you’re a psychopath, and I’m about to become your next victim.”
“First victim, actually,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Come on,” he says. “I owe you for not calling you back.”
I blink at him. We had a cliché summer camp romance—thrown together for six weeks, “fell in love,” then went back to our separate lives. We texted a few times, but it soon became apparent that whatever I thought we had started that summer stayed at camp for him.
“Say yes, Saylor.” His voice has grown quiet, barely louder than a whisper.
Images flood my memory—cuddling next to him at a bonfire, holding hands; the wink he’d throw my way across the mess hall; him tucking a strand of hair behind my ear right before kissing me.
It’s the fact that he remembers my name after all that does it.
“Okay.” I whisper it back, not trusting my vocal cords.
A grin splits Rhett’s face. He takes the boxes from my hands and gestures over his shoulder with his chin. “I’m parked over here.”
I follow him to a cherry-red sports car that looks more like a toy than an operational vehicle. So this is why he wanted to take me home. Impress the girl, score the goal.
I can’t wait to disappoint him.
He sets the boxes on the roof to open my door—I guess he found another reservoir of chivalry—and after I’m settled, he deposits my things in the boot.
Who the fuck would have believed I’d end a very shitty day in Rhett Cole’s Maserati?
Timie would insist on getting every last detail if talking was still something we did with any regularity.
The car emits an air of luxury I should not be inhaling.
People like me don’t ride in vehicles like this.
I check the soles of my boots, but they’re not too dirty, considering how many miles of city streets they’ve traversed.
In a moment of defiance, I fill my lungs with the spicy leather and expensive cologne scent.
Rhett slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, Prince’s voice bleeding through the speakers. But instead of pulling out of the parking spot, he turns to look at me, that stupid smile still stretched across his very nice mouth. I remember that mouth well.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
What I’ve been up to? He says it like I just popped over to the shops for the day and we’re catching up over dinner.
I blink at him. “For the past eleven years?” I return my gaze to the windshield and tick off my fingers. “Well, let’s see. Last night I binged Suits on Netflix. Have you seen it? Highly recommend.”
He shakes his head, his smile somehow even wider, and pulls the car into traffic. We’ll probably cause an accident in this ostentatious thing, people blowing red lights as they crane their necks for a better look.
“How about the big stuff,” he says, glancing at the hand in my lap with its bare ring finger. “Husband? Kids?”
“God, I’m only twenty-five.” I am not talking about my failure of a marriage with Rhett Cole.
“I forgot. Still a baby.” He clucks his tongue.
I snort loudly and sink further back into the seat. This leather is exquisite. I feel like I’m being cocooned in butter. “You’re, like, a year older than me.”
He cackles at this. “Touché. Where are we going?”
I give him directions to my flat, trying not to notice the way his hands grip the steering wheel—casually, like he’s used to handling this much power.
His hands are large and have several tattoos each.
A subtle sideways glance reveals they’re sprinkled up his arms too.
I wonder how many are on his chest before murdering that thought.
He’s wearing a rust-orange knit polo that looks like it’s straight from the ’70s, along with cream-colored jeans. It’s like looking at my fantasy version of Billy Dunne from Daisy Jones and the Six. Sam Claflin is hot, but Rhett Cole is . . . mesmerizing.
“What were you doing at the Hamilton Building?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I can’t think of a single reason someone who drives a fucking Maserati would have for being on this side of town. Everything we have, they have in overpriced droves where he comes from.
The shrug he gives me is so casual, so practiced. “Running errands.”
As if Rhett Cole doesn’t have people to run his errands for him. It’s a bald-faced lie, but I let it go. “How’s Princess Beatrice?”
I haven’t overplayed my hand with this question, because anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for the past five years knows about his on-again-off-again relationship with the Princess Royal.
“Good, I assume.” His eyes dart toward me. “I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
I shove my tongue into the side of my cheek and stare at the passing shops.
“Do you have any animals?” he asks.
“Nope,” I say to the window.
“No dog?”
An image of Charlie flashes through my mind, followed by that now-familiar dull ache. “They’re animals the last time I checked.”
He laughs. “Closer to people if you ask me.” Several beats of tense silence pass, then he says, “Not even a goldfish?”
I hold up a finger, but keep my eyes averted. “Not an animal. And no. Why do you keep asking?”
I feel, rather than see, his shrug. “Just remembered how much you liked animals is all,” he mumbles.
Fortunately, the world’s awkwardest car ride comes to a stop a few minutes later as he pulls up in front of my building.
“Thanks for the ride.” I climb out of the car before he can get any ideas about opening my door again.
He’s already lifting my boxes out of the boot.
“I can take those.” I reach for them.
Twisting his body away from me, he says, “Lead the way.”
I roll my eyes and head for the metal staircase. If he wants to play Cary Grant, he can play fucking Cary Grant. But he’s not setting foot inside my door.
He waits patiently while I dig the key from my bag. It’s buried at the bottom, as usual.
My neighbor sticks her head out into the hallway, bright pink curlers buried in her bottle-red hair. “Saylor,” she hisses. “Must you make so much noise? Luca is sleeping.”
“Hi, Paula.” I twist the key in the lock. “We’ll try to be quieter.”
“Who’s Luca?” Rhett asks after Paula retreats into her flat.
“Her reborn doll.”
His left brow quirks upward. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.” The door swings inward, and I grasp it before it opens further and accidentally invites my unwelcome visitor inside. “But if you’re feeling adventurous, Google it.”
He looks reluctant to hand over the cartons, but I weasel them from his hands anyway. “Hold it right there,” he says, and rummages through his pocket.
I hear the scratch of a marker on cardboard. “Please don’t tell me you carry a Sharpie with you.”
He emerges from the other side of the stack of boxes with that shit-eating grin. “Actually, it’s a Dango.” He wiggles the silver pen back and forth.
I close my eyes. “My god.”
“What are you doing tonight?” he says, shoving his hands back into his pockets.
“Anything but you. Sorry.” I edge backward into my flat. “Thanks again for the ride.”
“My pleasure.” His eyes flick downward. “Nice shoes.”
Under his attention, my feet grow hot inside my special edition Doc Martens X Keith Haring 1460 black combat boots. I shift awkwardly, unsure what to do with his gaze. It feels like live coals. “Thanks,” I say.
He winks—again—then adds, “If you ever want to redo those really bad kisses, just let me know.”