Chapter 11 #5
I keep my expression neutral, refusing to react even though it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of me with a straw. He’s trying to manipulate you by airbrushing your memories and recasting them in a rose-colored filter. Don’t fall for it.
He crouches down a little to catch my downcast eyes. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t have any fun at all?”
I hesitate, not comfortable with the direction this conversation is headed. He’s trying to soften me up, thaw me out when what I need is to stay frozen and vacuum sealed.
So I sidestep. “I’m not looking to live in the past,” I tell him, and his smile dims a little, like he’s disappointed I didn’t meet him halfway.
“What’s the real story with the flying, anyway?” I ask, trying to steer us back to something lighter. Even now, I can’t stand seeing him upset. “Did you undergo hypnosis? Did your body double murder you and take over your life?”
He grins like a kid who’s dying to spill a secret. “When Tom Cruise tells you to get your pilot’s license, you get your pilot’s license.”
I slap my palm to my forehead. “Of course! I should have known that only Tom Cruise himself could get you to face your fear.”
He rocks his hand side to side. “Well, him or a certain woman giving me a lap dance.”
I roll my eyes, though I’m secretly amused. The joke is a well-worn favorite of his, and he never misses a chance to make me blush. “You’ll never let it go.”
“Never.”
I make a face, earning me a chuckle—and God, it feels good to make him laugh again.
The sound is rich and satisfying, like an old metal key slipping into a lock.
The longer I stand here smiling, the more I feel myself softening in ways I swore I wouldn’t.
And that’s the real threat—how easily he disarms me and slips under my skin.
Once upon a time, banter was our Olympic sport.
It was also our foreplay, which is why this back-and-forth sparring feels so dangerous.
He’s got a gravitational pull I can’t seem to escape, and I’m running out of strength to resist.
I need to get out of here.
I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ve got to—” I start, at the same time he says, “I wanted to—”
We laugh awkwardly, and I motion for him to go first.
His eyes pin me like a dart on a bullseye. “Have dinner with me.”
“No.” It comes out reflexively, a knee-jerk response.
He smiles, patient and unfazed, like he expected my opening salvo. “Please,” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble. It jolts my heart like jumper cables. “One dinner.”
I shake my head no, but another part of me—the part that’s lain awake at night with a million unanswered questions—screams yes. It’s a tug-of-war I don’t know how to win.
He reads the indecision all over my face, seizing his opening.
“No tricks, I promise. I won’t push you on anything.
Just dinner. I’ll tell you all about my last ten years, and you can tell me about yours.
” He seems to reconsider that. “Or not. You can tell me nothing, and just listen to me drone on. It’s totally up to you. No pressure.”
My lips twitch at his flailing. He can’t know it, but he’s dangled the very thing I’m hungriest for: information.
Jase’s comment echoes in my ears like a chirping smoke detector: He’s been different for a long time.
Maybe you should give him a chance to show you.
And as much as I don’t want to admit it, maybe Kendall’s right. Maybe I do need closure.
The longer I hesitate, the more confident he looks. He knows I’m wavering. “Come on, you have to eat.”
I bark a loud ha! “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I haven’t eaten a real meal in years.”
“All the more reason to let me feed you. You must be starving.”
I laugh in spite of myself, and it helps break the tension.
He ducks his head down a little, donning the most pathetic-effective puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. “Come on. What are you going to do instead, go back to your house and eat alone?”
He knows me too well; I’m at a distinct disadvantage. “Maybe I’m meeting up with Jase,” I say defensively.
“Are you?”
I frown and look away, exposing my lie.
He takes a step toward me. “You’ve spent enough time with Jase. Spend time with me instead.”
“Why?” It’s the question I keep coming back to, the one I can’t seem to wrap my head and heart around. Why are you putting me through this? Why can’t I seem to move on from you? You could have any woman you want—why do you even care about me anymore?
Why won’t you let me go?
He’s quiet for a long moment, his hands fisting restlessly in his pockets like he’s holding himself back—but from what, I don’t know.
“You know what Millie was saying, about her husband being her best friend?” I nod and he swallows heavily, something raw in his eyes.
“You were my best friend once, Scarlett. There were so many times over the past ten years I wanted to talk to you, I was desperate to, and I couldn’t.
” His voice catches on the word desperate, and it punches the air from my lungs, stripping away the last layer of my resistance. “I miss my best friend.”
When I say yes, it’s because I can’t lie to myself anymore: He’s not the only one who hasn’t let go.