Chapter Eighteen Julia #3
“But I think you have, Jules,” he said, pointing his fork at me and shooting me a knowing look.
“How long does it take to get a new wallet? You’ve had time since you dropped it on Broadway, and you’ve had time since we sat down at this restaurant.
I think someone just can’t let go of her little farmer boyfriend. ”
“Stop,” I said with a snort because he was ridiculous, and I could feel myself getting angrier. “Yes, I can.”
“So you admit he’s a farmer,” Damion said with a know-it-all little eyebrow raise.
“His father is a farmer, yes,” I said.
“The ex plays football?”
“Yes.” Ugh.
“Drives a pickup?”
Damion was starting to piss me off. “Yes,” I answered, my teeth grinding.
“Likes to wear flannel?”
“Yes.”
“Likes to drink beer from a can?” His voice was annoyingly smug and amused. “Likes to go four-wheeling? You’re still in love with him?”
Make it STOP!
“Yes, yes, and yes!” I snapped, slamming down my silverware. “Would you please—”
I held in my gasp. Damion’s hazel eyes—more brown than green today—were attentive as he waited for me to realize what he’d asked. What I’d just admitted.
You’re still in love with him?
“No, not at all,” I said quickly, but suddenly I was thrust out of the back-and-forth unseriousness of the conversation, because his pause made me picture Will.
Which made everything come rushing back.
The homesickness for the comfort of us, the rejection, the utter disillusionment.
Dammit.
“I’m not,” I said pointedly. Slowly, so Damion could believe it. So I could believe it. “Besides,” I began, my voice shaking. I could feel Damion shift in his seat, slightly uncomfortable at the topic he’d just unearthed.
Good, you should feel bad.
“Will is in love with someone else. Hannah.”
“Oh.” Damion’s gaze didn’t waver.
He watched me like he was absorbing a piece of information, like I’d said something he needed to comprehend. I wanted to say something light and breezy, but my voice seemed to be stuck somewhere inside the tightness of my throat.
I waited for the sarcastic comment. The cocky jab. But—
Instead Damion set his silverware on his plate. He wiped his hands with his white linen napkin.
“Listen.” He reached out a hand and carefully grabbed my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
And for some reason, I didn’t back away.
With the lightest of touches, his thumb stroked my skin.
It was playful, teasing, and his voice was flirtatious when he said, “If you ask me, someone should steal that wallet so you can move on.”
Why did I feel like crying all of a sudden? He wasn’t being nice, he was being his usual flirtatious and mocking self, but for some reason, his tone made me feel… comforted. Understood, even.
We stayed like that for a moment, his fingers caressing my chin, our eyes locked on to each other.
“Sometimes things are hard to let go of, I guess,” I heard myself say.
“Yeah,” he agreed, and I watched his throat move when he swallowed, like he knew it too. Like we were both admitting to harboring a secret melancholy. Like we were each confessing with just a glance.
Maybe it’s just me, I thought. Does he feel it too?
Because it was nice and wildly concerning, all at once.
“Damion.”
I gasped at the interruption, glancing up to see Massimo tableside with our dinner. His appearance ripped me out of whatever that moment had been, and I was glad.
I needed to shake whatever had been going on in my head. And I did, until we reached the subway platform and were waiting for the train.
When Damion crossed his arms over his wide chest and said, “Are we becoming friends, Jules?”
He was watching me like he’d been giving our… friendship a lot of thought. Too much thought.
I looked at his suggestive eyebrow quirk and the way his mouth was settled into a teasing little smirk, and my stomach got… flittery.
Because whenever he said my name in that deep, rumbling near drawl, like his mouth was taking its time slow-slipping over the word, I felt the same way I felt when I consumed one too many energy drinks.
Trembly. Unsteady.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said in a rush, the words falling on top of each other.
“You don’t,” he said, his tone thick with doubt.
“We’re not the type of people who will ever really be friends,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears and trying to put up a shield capable of deflecting his wicked charm. “We don’t even like each other. You’re just my tutor and I’m your student.”
“Yes, but.” He stepped slightly closer, just enough to where I had to tilt my head back and look up at him. His ever-changing eyes were heavy-lidded and direct, hot, when he said, “My tutorial areas of expertise are not just limited to mathematics, Nebraska.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at his outrageous flirt, maybe push his chest to clear out some personal space, but I was incapable. Paralyzed. Immobilized by the power of his ridiculous game. Instead of spouting something smart, I heard myself say on a breath, “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” he said, the eyes behind the glasses moving over me like a physical touch. “So anytime you want more, all you have to do is ask.”