Chapter 16
JULES
I was flirting.
Since Riggiomore, and maybe before that, pretending I wasn’t was a big fat lie, and according to my therapist, that was as useful as duct-taping a crack in the Hoover Dam and saying, “What leak?”
When I told her I wanted more time for my fiction writing, she said, “It’s cute how you joke your way out of the things that matter most to you.
But eventually, you’ll have to want something without a punchline attached.
” As Cole and I made our way from dinner toward whatever destination we were headed to next, I had to admit it. Not only was I flirting.
It was fun.
With Cole Ford.
Who would have guessed?
Every drink, every shared story, seemed to bring him closer to “new Cole” and further away from “old Cole.” I could see now why the guys hung out with him. But that still didn’t mean lighting a match meant I should toss it into a dry forest.
He was still one of the most emotionally unavailable men I’d ever met. Basically, a recipe for heartbreak. So why couldn’t I stop attempting to rack up points?
“No way,” he said as we strolled down the cobblestone street. “You don’t get a point for smiling at me like that and pretending it wasn’t strategy. It has to be actual wit, not weaponized dimples.”
Weaponized dimples. I kinda liked that.
Somehow our innocent point game had turned into a competition on who could charm the other person into admitting they were having fun.
“I disagree.”
“Too bad you’re not keeping score.”
Except, I was. Just not of the game. And according to my calculations, Cole was flirting with me too.
“What do you think?” he asked, changing gears. “Doesn’t look like this is much of a late-night town?”
We’d made our way back to Monterosso—on the train since we missed the last ferry—and shared a pizza for dinner. If I realized how few bars there were, I might have suggested lingering after dinner for another drink.
“There’s a rooftop on our hotel.” I nodded toward a wine store. “Since you’re a Sciacchetrà fan, and it’s a local wine, I’m sure they have it in there.”
“Sounds good.”
It wasn’t until we were at the register when I mumbled “One point Jules” that Cole realized he’d inadvertently admitted to liking the wine. Which meant, in my book, having fun.
He didn’t even argue but instead gave me a grudging look of acceptance.
We walked to the hotel in silence. I had no idea what Cole was thinking, but for myself, thoughts raced and jumbled together in an orchestra that was anything but in sync.
Being goal-driven is fine.
The words of my amazing therapist flitted through my head.
But don’t be so locked into a defined future outcome that misses the glimmers.
I’d never heard the word used that way before, but since then I couldn’t stop looking for them.
I was still wondering if Cole was a glimmer, or just the opposite, after we stopped in the lobby to snag two glasses by the water station and made our way up to the rooftop.
“You’re obviously goal-driven,” I said, Cole opening the bottle with the wine opener he’d purchased. “How do you balance knowing what you want, planning your future, but allowing for glimmers?”
I took the wine from him, momentarily lost in the sight of his hands. They were mature, powerful… utterly male.
“Glimmers?”
“Tiny sparks,” I said. “Stuff that makes you feel something without warning. A laugh you didn’t see coming. A view you weren’t expecting. Someone who…”
I hesitated for a half-second, lifting my glass to buy time.
“Someone who surprises you.”
He watched me closely, and I had to look away before I said something stupid.
“My therapist says I spend so much time bracing for disappointment that I miss the tiny good things. Glimmers are like… reminders my whole life doesn’t have to be a crisis to fix.”
I shrugged, trying to play it off.
“It’s easy to plan out your whole future and still miss the moments that actually matter.”
Even though I wasn’t looking at him, I could tell Cole was watching me.
“He, or she, sounds like a wise person.”
“She.” I chanced a look over at him. “I haven’t talked to her in a while, but she’s pretty incredible.”
“Did you start therapy for a specific reason?”
His voice was quiet, Cole’s tone thoughtful. Easy to answer honestly to.
“Yes. I was at a crossroads in my career, feeling unsure about my future. Someday I hope to be a full-time writer—I’ve been working on a thriller—but haven’t made the time.
She helped me see that it was okay not to have the answers yet.
Piecing together a career to pay the bills—some community college teaching, some tutoring and freelance jobs—wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. ”
He looked genuinely confused. “Why would you be ashamed of it?”
Again, I shrugged, trying to pretend it hadn’t been an existential crisis in my life a few years ago.
“Everyone around me is so stable. I’m like a hot mess express pretty much twenty-four-seven, and my career is exhibit A.
But I learned a little uncertainty is okay.
Now I look for the glimmers that help shape what’s to come.
Like my highest-paying freelance job that I got by talking to a guy sitting next to me in the airport.
I saw what he was reading and took it as a glimmer, struck up a conversation, and it turned out he was the editor of a mid-sized publishing house.
We ended up talking the whole flight. Two weeks later, he emailed asking if I’d take on a freelance developmental edit for one of their authors. ”
He was staring.
But in a curious way, as if something was running through his mind, though I couldn’t imagine what that might be.
“I’ve never allowed for glimmers,” he said finally.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Huh.” I sipped my wine, wondering if he would elaborate.
Cole turned, leaned back in his chair, and looked out to a mostly obstructed yet still somehow magical view of Monterosso at night.
“My father is a college history professor,” he said.
“Like you.”
“Yeah. Like me. When I was in ninth grade we moved out of Cedar Falls when he got a tenured-track position at Yale. The way I grew up… it wasn’t surprising I enjoyed history too.
And once I got on the same track as him”—Cole looked at me—“there were no room for glimmers. My father had high expectations.”
Ahh, that made sense. In a lot of ways, actually.
“Do you like it?”
He blinked, as if not expecting the question.
“Teaching?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Or teaching at Columbia. Your kind of teaching and mine are two totally different things.”
“They are,” he agreed. “Do I like it,” Cole repeated, taking a sip of wine.
It wasn’t a hard question. And the fact that he hadn’t answered already told me everything.
“I don’t love the city. Teaching, yes. The bullshit that goes along with it. Not as much.”
“So why do you stay?”
He looked at me like I had two heads. “I’m about to make tenure,” he said.
“I get that. And I get how incredibly prestigious your position is. But it doesn’t sound like it makes you intensely happy. And no room for glimmers?”
“Intensely happy. That’s a high bar. Especially for a job.”
I disagreed. “It’s the only bar. One life Cole, that’s all you get. There are no do-overs.”
A shadow passed his features. There was something more. Something he wasn’t telling me.
After that, there was no more talk of life goals or glimmers. But I did get one more point when Cole said he was glad I lost my backpack.
“I can’t say I’m thrilled about not having a phone or wallet,” I said, Cole picking up the empty bottle after we decided it was time to call it a day. “Actually, it’s not been as bad as I thought, being phoneless. But the wallet thing is driving me nuts.”
“You really don’t have to worry about that.” Cole held the door that led to the stairs and lobby for me. “I got you.”
“Only in the sense that we’re keeping track of expenses, and I’m paying you back the second we’re back in Cedar Falls.”
“Whatever you say, monella.” He tossed the empty wine bottle into the small recycling bin and put our empty glasses on the table beside it.
We made our way to the room.
My room, not ours. Because he moved out.
Cole held the door open for me. We entered the staircase, my room a floor up from the lobby. I had no idea where his new one was. I breezed past him, and Cole sucked in a breath.
I couldn’t resist.
As the door closed behind him, I whispered, “And that’s another one.”
His hand was on my waist before I could even register the touch. One second, I’d been walking in front of him. The next, Cole pulled me back a step, trapping me against the wall. His hands gripped my wrists, pinning them above my head.
My heart was slamming against my chest, the movement so unexpected that my brain took a second to catch up to my body’s response, and I stared into his eyes, through those glasses that suddenly felt like the only barrier between us.
Besides his hands on my wrists, we weren’t touching. But if Cole leaned forward an inch, we would be. I waited for his move. Waiting for him to kiss me. Didn’t even consider he wouldn’t.
“This is a dangerous game,” he growled out, his voice low and mildly threatening.
“Why?” I tossed back, not heeding his threat.
His fingers tightened around my wrists. Such delicious pressure, especially because it was so unexpected from a guy like him.
His breath hit my cheek.
Cole was so close I could feel the tension coming from his chest and shoulders.
Then something shifted in his expression. Restraint.
“Juliette…” he whispered, like it was a warning to himself.
He let go.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was dismantling a bomb.
“We can’t,” he said, stepping back until the space between us felt colder than the night air. He took another step, then another, until he was clear of me entirely.
“Goodnight, monella.”
And he was gone, back through the door to the lobby, leaving me pressed against the wall, wanting, of all things, Cole Fucking Ford.