Chapter 8 #3
When the torte arrives, it looks delicious—not that I’d tell Zach that. He takes his fork, and our hands bump as we go for the same corner.
“Sorry, Honeycomb. This is yours.”
He pulls his fork back and lets me take the first bite, watching me closely.
“It’s delicious,” I admit.
He grins. “Knew you’d like it.” He takes a couple of bites before leaning back into the booth. “Not the best thing I’ve ever tasted, but it’s close.”
I ignore the innuendo in his words. I know what he wants me to take from that, and I refuse to let it affect me.
“I'm glad you came out tonight,” he says.
I frown. “Because standing out on the balcony trying to look into my room might be legally considered stalking?”
He smiles faintly, but this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No, because when things get hard, you disappear. You shut everyone out and convince yourself you’re better off alone.” His thumb traces the stem of his martini glass. “And maybe part of me was hoping that if you came out tonight, it meant you weren’t doing that.”
I hate it. I hate that he knows me better than myself at times.
“That’s dramatic,” I mutter, because deflection is easier than honesty.
“Is it?” he asks quietly. “Because every time you choose not to disappear, I feel like maybe I haven’t lost you yet, even if you’re threatening my life over pasta.”
The waiter drops the bill, and Zach’s already signed it off before I’ve finished my mouthful of torte.
“Zach. You don't have to pay for my dinner,” I say. “I'm happy to pay for myself.”
“Consider it an apology for ambushing you on a cruise ship.”
“An apology would be getting off the cruise ship,” I say, although now that he's here, I'm not sure I want him to go.
“Let's not get crazy.” He stands, offering me his hand to help me out of the booth. This time, I take it. Just because the booth is deep and I’ve had a glass of wine.
His fingers close around mine, and he doesn't let go right away when I'm standing. He just holds on for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before he releases me.
We walk through the restaurant side by side, close enough that our arms brush with the gentle sway of the ship. The hallway outside is quieter, most passengers have already settled into evening shows or the casino.
At my cabin door, I fish out my key card, hyperaware of him standing behind me. The space between us feels electric, charged with all the things we said and all the things we didn't.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say quietly.
He leans against the wall, giving me a little space. “You’re welcome.”
I fidget with my room key, not quite meeting his eyes. “I should probably—”
“Honey, wait.” He runs a hand through his hair, and something in his expression shifts. “I’m sorry.”
The apology catches me off guard.
“I should've given you space,” he continues. “But I couldn't. I've spent over a year giving you space and it hasn't changed anything. We're still—” He trails off, like he's not sure how to finish.
“Still what?” I ask, and my voice comes out softer than I want it to.
“Still not us.”
I swallow hard.
Stop dangling yourself.
Olivia’s words are the ones playing in my mind now.
“Zach—”
“I know.” He steps closer, just enough that I can smell his cologne.
It’s woody and warm and so painfully familiar that my heart aches.
“I know this isn't what you planned but I'm here now, and I'm asking you to give me—give us—these two weeks.
That's all. Just let me remind you why we work.
If it doesn't change how you feel, then at least I'll know I tried everything.”
When I look up at him and find nothing but sincerity in his expression, all I can think about is the boy I fell in love with in high school.
He’s always seen me in a way no one else has even tried to.
Before I can think better of it, I step into him.
My arms slide around his waist, and I press my face into his chest. His arms wrap around me instantly, pulling me closer until he can rest his chin on top of my head.
My hands fist in the back of his shirt, and I listen to his steady heartbeat beneath my cheek. He holds me in place like he never wants to let me go.
I let myself have this for just a second. Just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held by the only person who’s never once made me doubt that he wants me here.
When I tilt my head back to look at him, his eyes are already on me.
His face is close.
So close.
And his hands are on my waist. His lips are right there, and he's looking at me like I'm everything, and I—
I lean up.
Just slightly. Just enough that I can feel his breath on my mouth, can see the way his pupils dilate, can feel his hands tightening on my hips.
He doesn't close the distance.
He just stays there, waiting.
Letting me choose.
And I almost do.
I'm right there—a breath away, my eyes already closing—when something cold and sharp cuts through the warmth.
This is how it starts. This is how you lose yourself.
I step back, immediately putting distance between us that feels like miles even though it's only inches.
“I can't,” I whisper.
He just nods and lets his hands fall from my waist, runs one through his hair, and takes his own step back.
He doesn't chase me. Doesn't push.
“You know where I am, Honeycomb.” He gestures at his door. That’s when I hear the disappointment thick in his voice. “You're more than welcome to join me if you change your mind.”
“Good night, Zach,” I croak out, flustered at his honesty.
“Night, Honeycomb.”
I swipe my card and slip inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Then I lean against it, pressing my back to the wood, and stare at the ceiling.
My lips are tingling. My whole body is tingling. I can still feel the phantom weight of his arms around me. I can still smell his cologne on my skin, still feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth in that fraction of a second before I pulled away.
I almost kissed him.
What the fuck am I doing?