Chapter 4
Chapter Four
PAIGE
NOW
As I slip out of the hotel, I’m hit with a flood of heat, humidity and salt sticking to the air. I can already feel my knees melting, but there’s no way I’m going back inside. I don’t care how sweaty I get, waiting for my taxi.
If I see Benji again, I don’t know that I won’t do something dangerous, like yell. Or grab on to those massive shoulders and kiss him.
Which would be a really, really bad idea.
It’s late enough for darkness to swallow the main driveway, but above the muted lap of the shore comes the murmur of couples and laughter. That’s the kind of romance I was chasing tonight.
“Paige, stop.”
Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it?
When I wanted him to stay, he left. When I want him to go away, he comes running.
I turn to Benji. “What? I’m tired.”
He slides easily into my personal space, curling a hand around my elbow.
I almost forgot how tall he was. Before I met him, if you’d asked me to list the type of guy I was attracted to, I would have described Benji down to his dirt-stained sneakers—tall, great smile, the kind of confidence that feels like a spotlight when he looks at you.
And, boy, does he look. I mean, really, really look.
Like he can’t bear to tear his gaze away.
Like he’s been searching for something his whole life and he just found it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words thick and weighted. It sure sounds like he means it.
I wait for more, but it doesn’t come. God, he hasn’t changed.
“That’s it?”
“I was hoping we could go somewhere and talk.”
“I don’t see why. If you have something to say, then say it. You’ve had a year to workshop it; it shouldn’t be that hard.”
The hit lands. Good.
“Or maybe you can go back inside and tell your new friend, Carla.” It’s sour on my tongue as soon as I say it.
It’s not Carla I’m annoyed with; she seemed lovely.
It’s him and the fact that he can tell a complete stranger what he wants, but he can’t tell me. And that only makes me angrier at myself—because why would he? He doesn’t want me. He’s made that perfectly clear.
“I’m not interested in—”
“Being honest? Trust me, I already know that.”
“In anyone else,” he finishes.
I don’t believe it for a second.
I want to hate him. Skye does. I don’t blame her. If the tables were turned—and they have been—I’d hate him too. I should. But I don’t. The guilt of it hangs between my ribs like a chime, ringing every time I catch sight of him.
The worst part? The part I’m a little scared and ashamed to admit?
I still think about him. I still wonder what might have happened between us if the timing had worked better. There was something there—I know it in my gut—but he made a choice, and I’ve had to live with that for a year.
So, to see him now?
I don’t even know how to start sorting out my feelings.
I still want him; maybe that makes me weak, and maybe it makes me silly and sappy. I can accept all of that, but none of it changes the shock of lightning that runs through me when he steps into view. When I hear his voice. When we touch.
I keep my eyes on the road, keeping watch for the cab, but I don’t step out of his grip. “I saw you’d reopened. How long are you back for?”
“I’m … this isn’t temporary.”
“Isn’t it?”
His fingers flex, and sparks run up my arm when he runs his thumb along the sensitive skin of my elbow. “No. None of it is.”
Sure.
I can feel his gaze on me, unwavering, but I don’t dare look at him, too scared I’ll crumple. “How do you know that?”
“Because—”
“Because you had a lot of nice things to say the first time too.”
His exhale ghosts along my cheek, and I hate how much I’ve missed it. Missed him.
“I meant them. I still mean them. I never lied.”
“No, you left so you wouldn’t have to.” I pull out of his grip and try to calm my racing heart.
He stands there, sleeves pushed up his forearms, hands pushed into his slacks, gorgeous and tall, the shaved head and scruff doing nothing to harden the innate softness in his eyes, his smile.
It shouldn’t be possible for him to still be this beautiful.
It should be a rule of the universe—you hurt me, and the butterflies wither up and die.
God, my feet are aching in these heels. I miss my sneakers. I miss my bed. I miss my life before Benji came in and scrambled it up.
“I could tell, you know, that you were pulling away. Kept telling myself I was overthinking it, second-guessing myself because I liked you so much. And I couldn’t explain it, but I knew.”
The taxi finally, blissfully arrives, but Benji catches my hand when I turn to leave.
“I came back for you, Paige. No one else.” He guides my chin up until I’m hit with the full force of his green eyes. “I want to be the only man you ever want for the rest of your life. This isn’t over.”
It echoes over and over in my head the whole way home.
It won’t ever be over, will it? That’s what happens when you give your heart to someone. They leave their fingerprints on it when they give it back, and there’s no way to get rid of them.