It’s when I turn to exit the store that I see Whitney lingering at the entrance, cellphone to her ear, expression wary, her hand on the door handle as she speaks to whoever is on the other side of the line.
Briefly, I wonder if her conversation has anything to do with me, but it would be both presumptuous and asinine to think I mattered enough to be the subject of it.
Ready for another attempt, when she steps into the shop, I meet her at the door. When her eyes lift to mine, I hate the hesitation in her gaze. It’s as if a flip switches when she surprises me by flashing me a genuine smile while ending her call with a “thanks so much. I appreciate it.”
“Hey.”
“Hi,” she nods toward my bag. “I see you got lucky.”
“It was easy.” Lie.
“Easy? You hardly know my family.”
“I picked you.” Truth.
“You’re not supposed to tell.”
“I would have shopped with you otherwise…I didn’t want you thinking I—”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t offended.” Now she’s lying. This can’t be the way this continues. Even if being polite makes the situation more bearable for us both, I refuse to do it a second longer or let her do it, either. I decide on truth bombs from this moment on. Brutal honesty may be the only way I’ll be able to get through to her.
“Thanks for what you did, back there—”
“No need to thank me,” she says softly.
“I disagree. Thank you,” I whisper again, adamant she hears me.
“No worries…well, I don’t have much time left,” she darts her eyes past my shoulder, looking for an escape route.
I gesture to her hand full of bags. “Looks like you did well yourself.”
“Don’t judge. I have a Christmas fund.”
“I remember. You spoiled me with it once. And you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Eli—”
“Can we talk later, no bullshit?”
“Look,” she tugs at the brim of her beanie, her nose and cheeks red from the cold. “I don’t think it’s going to help anything to rehash ancient history. It’s best if we just don’t go there. I’m running out of time.”
“So am I. I’ve got five days to get you to talk to me without that ‘you’re an asshole’ look in your eye.”
“You can’t bully me into a conversation. That’s my decision.”
“True,” I step closer, forcing her against a shelf full of sweaters. “Ancient history it may be, but not all of it was bad…” I pick up a lock of champagne-colored hair from her shoulder and rub it between my fingers. “It’s hard not to remember, isn’t it? Especially when we’re this close.”
“Remember what?”
“You know damn well what.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Uh huh. My Adam’s apple appreciates your attention, but I would prefer you look at me.”
“You’re in my personal space.”
“Can’t say it doesn’t feel good to be back here.”
I grin as her eyes narrow when she lifts her gaze. “There you are.”
“Are you seriously coming onto me right now?”
“Maybe.” My eyes drop to her glossy lips, and my cock twitches. It’s the second time I’ve been hard for her in less than twenty-four hours. Not a first, not with her. “Let’s compromise, we can table that conversation, and I can get to know you again. But if memory serves, we never could last long in a room together.” I lower my voice. “You can pretend all you want that I haven’t been inside you, but I refuse to.”
She gapes at me, her eyes widening. “You did not just say that.”
“I did. Don’t you think we’re a bit old for games?”
“I’m not playing games, you ass. I just don’t see the point in talking about it. It’s a little late, Eli, don’t you think?”
“We’re still breathing, and our hearts are still beating. So, no, I don’t think it’s too late.”
She scoffs. “And what exactly are you thinking, Casanova?” She drawls icily—knowing I hate the nickname—before jerking her chin toward the shelf behind her. “You want to skip the pleasantries and bend me over these discounted sweaters for old times’ sake?”
“Tempting.” I bend so we’re eye level. “I know you remember us.”