Chapter 2 #2
He knocked again, and she jumped a little. What is he doing here? He’d made it clear earlier what she’d already known, that he hadn’t missed her, probably hadn’t given her a single thought in all these years.
It rankled that she couldn’t say the same, though it wasn’t from lack of trying. She’d done her best to get over him, but he’d been soul-deep. And that was hard to exhume.
She knew more about him than she intended to ever admit.
Her stalking skills were even better than her event planning skills, and she prided herself on being the best at that.
He had an Instagram account that he was annoyingly stingy about posting on, but she’d managed to learn some things.
Such as when she left for New York to take her scholarship, he’d stayed here in San Francisco, taking care of his dad as the ALS had progressed, and running The Canvas Shop.
After his dad’s death, Diego had left for San Diego, and as far as she could tell, he’d not been back since.
Until now.
“Daisy,” came his voice low and rough enough to scrape against her skin. “I know you’re in there. I can smell the wheels burning.”
Oh for the love of God, he still did that—walked in like a line from her favorite bad idea.
Rolling her eyes at both of them, she opened the door to find him leaning against the frame, hands braced above his head, filling the space with that big, tough body that had once upon a time made hers sing the hallelujah chorus.
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers, that same crooked grin flickering, the one that used to precede very questionable decisions.
“Yeah, trust me,” he said, voice edged with amusement. “I’m not thrilled either.”
“Then why are you here?”
He cocked his head. “What was that crack about me putting you second?”
“I didn’t know you cared,” she shot back.
For a second he looked genuinely taken aback, mouth parting before he caught himself. Then, instead of answering, he brushed past her into the apartment. “Gee,” she said dryly. “Come on in, why don’t you.”
He looked around the small but cozy apartment she loved because it was home in a way no other place had ever been.
She could tell that he didn’t miss anything, including the fact that her TV was paused on Netflix, there was a gallon of ice cream sitting open on the coffee table with a wooden spoon sticking out of it, and a slightly embarrassingly large glass of wine sat nearby.
His eyes came back to hers and said simply, “I care.”
“Huh.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched her with that infuriating, quiet intensity. The kind that made her remember what it felt like to have his hands on her skin and forget every life lesson she’d ever learned.
“I thought we should talk,” he said.
“Great,” she said briskly. “Here’s my version of that conversation. One, you’re the best man. Two, I’m the wedding planner. Three, this is for Rocco. None of that changes. Correct?”
He nodded once.
“So we make a pact,” she said.
His mouth curved. “A pact.” He took a step closer. “You’re sure that’s possible?”
She stood her ground and lifted her chin. “People avoid each other all the time. It’s an art form.”
He gave her a look that felt like a slow slide of heat over bare skin. “Never been my art form.”
Her pulse jumped. “We’ll start practicing. Now.”
When he didn’t reply, she drained her wine in one gulp. “I’ll take that silence as agreement.” She set down the empty glass with exaggerated care. “So, this happy reunion is officially over. You can leave, and I can get back to my life.”
“It’s seven p.m.,” he said. “You’re in pajamas, drinking wine, and eating ice cream straight from the carton. Netflix has already asked if you’re still watching.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe my social life is so full that this is the first night I’ve been alone in forever. Maybe I just want to Netflix and chill, no talking allowed.”
A tiny smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. This time, the expression was devoid of sarcasm and far more genuine. Warm, even. Which led to other thoughts about that sexy mouth of his.
Wait. Stop. Dammit. Note to self: no more wine while Diego’s in town!
“I’m not sure you know what Netflix and chill means.”
She stared at him.
His grin spread, slow and lethal.
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t mean…that.”
He laughed, and instead of leaving, he took the few steps to close the space between them, making her suck in a breath because there’d always been something about being this close to him, something that constantly had her body humming just beneath her skin with anticipation and hunger and need.
She’d told herself it was because he’d been her first love, and a girl never forgot that guy. But why in the world did she still feel it? Managing to not take a step back—or let’s be honest, a step into him—she kept herself still except to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “What?”
He stopped just close enough that her toes curled. “We’ll play this your way,” he said quietly. “We’ll avoid each other.”
“Good.”
“But—”
“No buts,” she said quickly.
“But…” he went on, undeterred, “if you ever want to…‘ Netflix and chill, no talking, warm body included, you now where I am.”
Her breath caught.
He smiled like he’d just set something on fire and was waiting to see how long it took her to notice.
Then he shook his head, half-amused, half-resigned. “Good night, Daisy.”
And before she could come up with a single clever thing to say, he was gone—door closing softly behind him, leaving the room still buzzing with him.
She stared at the empty doorway. Her heart did an unhelpful backflip, then tried to pretend it hadn’t.
Somewhere, Netflix chirped: Are you still watching?
“Yeah,” she muttered, flopping back onto the couch. “Unfortunately, I am.”