Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(63)

Scarlett: Oh my god. HI.

Maya: Oh my god back! I was wondering if he’d given me a real number!

Scarlett: I’ve been DYING for an update on you and Older Guy! Are you getting married? Should I save the date?

Maya: Unfortunately, no wedding registry yet.

Scarlett: Boo.

Maya: But I’m not out of ideas yet.

Scarlett: Lukas and I are rooting for you.

Maya: Is Lukas your bf’s name!?

Scarlett: Yes!

Maya: Well, he’s Hans in my phone.

Scarlett: Lol why

Maya: For the diabolical plan I’m masterminding I needed to save your contact under a male name. Hans was the first German name I could think of.

Scarlett: But Lukas is Swedish?

Maya: Oopsie.

Scarlett: He says that there are plenty of Hanses in Sweden, too, so it’s a solid choice. And wants me to wish you luck in your games. Is there anything we can do to help you on your honorable quest?

Footsteps.

They crunch against the gravel. Soften on the grass lawn that surrounds the pool. Come to a stop on the wooden deck. Someone stands between one of the few remaining lanterns and the sun lounger where I sit, cross-legged. A shadow, stretching over me like a caress. Before glancing up, I quickly type at Scarlett-Hans: Honestly, you’re doing it. Ttys!

“It’s nearly midnight, Trouble. And you’re out here all alone.”

There is a softness to Conor’s tone that must come from the darkness, from excellent wine, from a long day on the baking sand. The other guys have returned, too, and are singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” as they head inside the villa.

What a night to find out that my brother has no idea how to pronounce Scaramouche.

“You’re out here, too.” I grin up at him. Right above his head, Antares gleams its pretty, moribund light. “And considerably less wasted than the others.”

“Maya,” Eli yells from across the pool. “Where’s my future wife?”

“Sleeping in Tisha’s room. To protect each other from, I quote, ‘ye olde trilegged monster.’?”

Eli cannot possibly understand, but he nods. “What did you guys do all night?”

“Stayed in. Got high.”

“That’s so dumb,” Axel slurs before staggering inside the villa.

“New low, unlocked.” I shift my weight back to my palms. “Just got called dumb by Axel Hockeydude.”

Conor’s mouth twitches. “Must cut deep.”

“My self-esteem is bleeding on the floor.”

In the dark, my phone lights up with a text from Scarlett. My heart quickens, but I don’t look at it. All that matters, right now, is that Conor will.

And Conor does.

Even shrouded in shadows as he is, I see his features become taut. I take a shallow breath, feel the distant hum of the waves lapping at Isola Bella. Wait for him to speak. Am rewarded soon enough. “You can’t be serious, Maya.”

His r’s roll more than ever. I blink innocently. “What do you mean?”

He pointedly glances at my phone. The notification—Hans, 1 message—lingers.

I’m being devious. I’m being unfair and problematic and manipulative. I should tell him the truth—I want him, I miss him, I wish for us to be honest with each other. But honesty will only send him retreating. You told Avery that you’re in love with someone else, and we both know who you were talking about is not a conversation he’s ready to have.

“Just texting a friend,” I explain, truthful.

“We’ve been over this—”

“And I told you what was going to get me to stop.”

An exhale. “Are you planning to meet up with him?”

I say nothing. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“Tell me you’re not planning to leave this house.”

I cock my head. Choose my words very carefully. “If you sit here with me and answer a single question, maybe I won’t.”

It’s almost too easy. For me, that is. Conor’s nostrils flare, his cheekbones tense, and…nope. Not easy for him. Although I give him credit for settling close enough to me that the denim of his jeans brushes against my bare thigh.

“What question?’ he asks roughly.

“Why did we never meet in person, in the past three years?”

His tone lives somewhere between impatient and confused. “We met plenty of times. Whenever I went over to Eli’s house—”

“Alone, Conor. Why did we never make plans to meet alone?”

“Because you were finishing up your graduate degree, and I run one of the fastest-growing biotech firms in the country. We didn’t have time—”

“We talked on the phone nearly every day, and they weren’t short calls. Seems to me like we both made time.”

The tendons in his neck flex. Oh, Conor, I think. I never said I would play nice. And to prove it, I glance at my phone. Let my eyes linger on it.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. But he looks me in the eye and says, with a calm he doesn’t feel: “It’s just the rhythm our friendship fell into, Maya. Different relationships have different needs.”

“I agree.”

“Good. Then we can go the fuck to sleep.”

“The last part, I mean. No two relationships are alike. But the bit before, about it being a natural evolution…Do you want to know what I think?”