Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
She seems different and yet so familiar.
I stare at her like I’ve just seen a ghost. “What . . . what . . .” I glance over to my friends and then back at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
Chapter 25
Rebecca
A frown flashes across his brow. “Why?”
“I . . .” My heart is hammering in my chest. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?” He raises an impatient eyebrow.
I smirk. God . . . he’s still so gorgeous. “Everything and nothing.”
“I’m very busy, Rebecca. You can’t just turn up here and . . . ,” he says sternly. “I’m out with friends.”
“I know.” I look around as I try to regain my composure. I wasn’t counting on seeing him in the flesh throwing me this much. “Have you got ten minutes to spare to speak to an old friend?”
His eyes flick to the men he was just with.
“Ten minutes.” I hold my two hands up in surrender. “Not a minute over, I promise.”
He exhales, as if I’m the biggest inconvenience. “Fine, just a minute.” He walks over to his friends, who are now sitting at a table, and says something before returning to me. I gesture to the stool beside me. “Take a seat.”
He pulls up a chair and sits down. We stare at each other, and it’s still there.
The stars, the sky, and the moon. Electricity bounces between us.
And now I know that it’s real, because I’ve been with other people, and this wasn’t there with them.
He’s wearing a gray suit and a cream shirt. His hair has a bit of a curl to it, but it’s his beautiful face that I’ve dearly missed.
“What do you want to see me about?” he asks.
“I . . .”
Fuck.
“I wanted to tell you that my divorce has gone through.”
His eyes hold mine.
“And I’m selling the house.”
He stays silent. I know he hasn’t heard this from anyone else, because I purposely haven’t told a soul. I wanted him to hear it from me and me only.
“And . . . that you were right.”
A frown flashes across his face. “About what?”
“Everything.”
He nods softly, as if acknowledging my failures.
“I . . .” I shrug.
“Go on,” he prompts me.
“At the time we were together, I wasn’t emotionally in the right place for our relationship, and you have every right to hate me.”
His eyes drop to my lips and then dart back up to my eyes. “I don’t hate you, Rebecca.”
“I deserve it; it’s okay.” I shrug.
The bartender interrupts us. “What will it be?”
“I’ll have a margarita,” I say. I turn to Blake. “Do you have time for one drink?”
His eyes hold mine.
“As a friend, nothing more.”
“Sure, make that two.”
We fall into an uncomfortable silence.
“I want to apologize for what happened between us,” I tell him.
His eyes hold mine.
“I said some terrible things that I didn’t mean, and . . .” I shrug. “I know why you left.”
He stays silent, as if processing every word I’m saying.
“I’ve spent the last year healing my demons.”
“Demons.” He smirks sarcastically. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”
“Look. You don’t need to be a dick. I came to apologize and to tell you that you are free to move home. I’m leaving the street, and you won’t have to see me again.”
“Good.”
“Good,” I reply.
Ugh . . . still a smart-ass.
“Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he replies flatly.
“Here you are.” The waiter puts the two margaritas down in front of us.
“Thanks.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he replies as he picks up his cocktail.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Animosity bounces between us.
“Who?” he asks.
“No one special.”
He nods and clinks his glass with mine. We take a sip as we stare at each other.
“You look good.” I smile. “New York suits you.”
“Thanks.” He sips his drink. “I’d tell you that you look good, but you already know that. Did you wear my favorite dress on purpose?”
I smile. “Maybe.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I miss you.”
“And you think, what . . . you can just swan in here a year later in a red dress and click your fingers and everything is going to be okay?”
“No.”
“What did you think?”
“I wanted to tell you about my divorce face to face.”
“Why?”
“I needed to see if it was still there between us.”
“And is it?”
“You tell me.”
The air crackles between us like a sonic boom.
“Would you like to go on a date with me sometime?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. “What kind of date?”
Huh?
He wasn’t supposed to say that. I’ve practiced this conversation a million times over in my head, and he never said that.
“What kind of dates are there?”
“Well, if you came here to fuck me . . .” His eyes dance with defiance. “I wouldn’t say no. But if you came here to ask me to go on a real date, I would say not a chance in hell.”