“What happened between you and Amy?” she asked.
The question surprised him, but he supposed it shouldn’t have. He’d hesitated to tell her before, but he didn’t like the idea of hiding Amy. She deserved more than being a secret.
Jane narrowed her eyes at his long pause. “Did you cheat on her?”
“No.”
“Just checking. You don’t seem to have a lot of obvious faults, so I had to ask. Did you know your marshmallow’s on fire?”
“Shit.” He yanked his spear from over the pit and blew out the fire, eyeing the black lump that used to be a marshmallow.
Jane laughed.
He looked at her clearly enjoying his discomfort and had to shake his head. “See? Plenty of faults.”
“Uh-huh, and one of them is being good at coming up with distractions when you’re asked uncomfortable questions. You make crap s’mores. And you don’t have a poker face.”
She was still smiling, and damn if it didn’t bring out one of his own. “I have faults,” he said. “Lots of them.”
“Yeah? I’m all ears.”
“Okay . . .” He thought about it, not wanting to give away the farm, but wanting to be honest. “I hyperfocus on work and lose track of everything else. And when I’m in that headspace, I can apparently be . . .” He thought about the biggest complaint Amy and his few other shorter relationships had always had. “Distant.”
“Me too,” she said and bit into her s’more. Her moan cut through him. As did her next question. “So. Amy. What happened? You’ve known her since you were a kid, she told you that you were in a relationship, you went to college together, and then . . . ?”
“We got engaged.” The year after college, they’d played house and they’d been happy. Or so he thought. But then she started pressing for that wedding she’d been dreaming of since seventh grade. He made some agreeable noises and she’d been so happy, but he’d stalled on setting a date.
And then she’d died—without the wedding, which had been all she’d ever wanted.
These days he never made promises. Ever. He looked at Jane and felt a pang, because if he was the promising type, she’d be the woman he’d want to make promises to.
“Levi?”
Shit. Why had he pushed for deep tonight? He was allergic to deep. Maybe when he’d hit his head, he’d been more injured than he’d originally thought. Although it wasn’t his head aching now, it was his chest.
Something to think about.
But for now, there was no getting around this. “She passed away unexpectedly a year after we were engaged,” he said. “An aneurysm.”
“Oh my God.” She set down her s’more. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed—”
“No, it’s okay. And what was it you said? It sucks. Life sucks. But then you learn to live with it. You don’t necessarily forget, but you move on.”
Her eyes were warm. Regretful, but also understanding. She didn’t offer empty platitudes, for which he was grateful. She simply nodded and then went about toasting another perfect marshmallow. Then she created a s’more with it and handed it to him.
That was when he realized that the more he got to know her, the more real he wanted this to be.
“This was a very unusual date,” she said, eyes dark by the fire’s glow, mouth utterly kissable.
He smiled. “You said date.”
“Pretend date,” she corrected. “You promised me, remember?”