Some sort of semi-hypnotic state takes me over, and I sit.
I suppose that was always a foregone conclusion.
The bartender returns with our drinks, giving me the excuse I need to look away while I try to regain my composure. Actually, regain is probably the wrong word, since I never have composure in Liam’s presence to begin with. I need to run off, steal someone else’s composure and return it at the end of the night, when I’m safe from Liam.
“What should we toast to?” he says, raising his glass.
I clear my throat and grab my own drink. “The Nets?” I ask sweetly.
We both love basketball and spent many fun hours shit-talking each other because he loves the Heat and I love the Nets.
He scowls. “To new beginnings,” he says, then clinks and sips.
“Whatever you say,” I say, then also sip, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“By the way, I decided it’s best that you never started your own atelier.”
Much as I’d like to ignore it, the subtle taunt in his voice scrapes right over my raw nerves.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean…wedding dresses? You?” His stare is direct, unwavering and contains all the warmth of a winter storm blowing the South Pole. “You’re not a fan of anything to do with committed relationships. Last I heard.”
As if he’s a fan of committed relationships.
I sit there seething and impotent. I’m a nonviolent person who’s never slapped anyone in my life. Tonight is shaping up to be the ideal time to change all that. But then I’d give Liam the satisfaction of knowing he got to me, and I can never allow that.
But I can switch this up and push one or two of his buttons.
“Well, you know.” I swivel my stool around, rest both elbows on the bar and give my back just a hint of an arch as I cross my legs. Enough to emphasize my negligible cleavage. Don’t get me wrong. The best thing you could say about my small breasts is that they’re perky and occasionally allow me to go braless. Like tonight. Evidently, he notices, if his sudden greedy interest in the outlines of my nipples and bare legs is any indication. “I enjoy sex. The city is filled with handsome men who are happy to enjoy it with me. Some of them are probably here in this room tonight. Why tie myself down to one man?”
His gaze, slow and appreciative, trails down my body. I’m tall, so the process takes a few beats. By the time his heated attention returns to my eyes, my nipples are a lot harder and I feel the sweet ache of arousal between my thighs. And I’m betting that if I reached for his crotch, I’d discover that my nipples aren’t the only hard things around here.
“Say the word,” he says in that black-velvet voice. “As a handsome man in the room tonight, I’m happy to help you out.”
Funny how tempted I am to let him. The unwanted temptation makes me hate him even more than I normally do.
“No thanks,” I say, then take a sip of my drink. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” A muscle pulses in his jaw. “Seriously, though. Congratulations on your success as a designer. I always knew you’d achieve great things.”
Those soulful eyes hit me with a steady beam of sincerity that makes me want to cry. Probably because I didn’t know that the cost for this success would be quite so high. And because I never imagined that my heart would still feel so empty even after I achieved so much of what I thought it desired.
I have a great job, yeah, but it’s not my dream job. I’m hitting my mid-thirties with no husband and no prospects, unless I want to suddenly get much more enthusiastic about online dating. No kids. And a lot of empty nights home alone in the fabulous apartment I bought by myself for myself.
But…he does seem to mean it.
Something inside me softens. I don’t want it to, but it does.
I open my mouth. Hesitate.
“Congratulations on your success as a doctor. And as an entrepreneur.” I read an article about his initial public offering in Forbes a few months ago. “I always knew you’d achieve great things.”
“Thanks,” he says gruffly, ducking his head. “That means a lot. Coming from you.”
That’s one of the more endearing and intriguing things about Liam, not that it cancels out the bad stuff. But he has quiet moments, exactly like this, where he genuinely doesn’t seem to understand what an exceptional person he is. My heart, which is seeing way more action than it’s seen in the last, oh, decade or so, starts to ache.
If only this guy had shown this face a little more often back when we were together. What might have happened? How far could we have gone?
“You’re still practicing, though, aren’t you?” I ask, arrested. “You always seemed so excited about taking care of people.”
“I’ll never stop practicing.” His voice softens as he looks up and resumes eye contact, jolting something tender inside me that’s been dormant for a long time. “If you love something, you can’t just let it go.”
And that, in a nutshell, is why I need to avoid Liam. At all costs.
He brings too many if onlys with him. If only he didn’t say things like that. If only he meant them if and when he did say them.
And I can’t. I just can’t.
I hastily gulp down the rest of my champagne. Then I slide down from the stool, wobbling a little in my heels. He grips my upper arm, steadying me, scalding me with the remembrance of that touch and the way it used to glide over my body.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say crisply, keeping my gaze lowered as I pull free because I can’t risk connecting with him. Not in any way. Not now, not ever. “I should find Eric.”
“Understood.”
I look up again, even though I know better. And suddenly there we are, staring at each other. Connecting. Or maybe still connected. Either way, it’s bad news for me. And it’s bad news even before I notice the color rising over his face and concentrating in his cheeks, giving him a hint of vulnerability that touches something in the area where my heart used to be.
“I’ve just been wondering… Did you ever think about me?”
Did I—?
I could almost laugh at the absurdity of the question. If only this whole scene wasn’t so pathetic. As it is, I barely manage to silence my strangled sound of disbelief.
Did. I. Ever. Think. About. Him.
It feels unnatural not to tell him the truth, which is that thoughts of him have tortured me for most of my adult life. That there were periods when I prayed for dreams about him, because at least then we’d be together for a while.
Still, I do my best to keep my expression ruthlessly neutral, with maybe a hint of bewilderment.
“Why would I think about you?”
He blinks. Then he tenses, the hurt washing over his expression the way foamy rainbow soap washes over my car when I get it cleaned.
I turn and start to walk off, determined to get away from him before anything worse happens—
“So that’s it?” he calls after me. “We don’t see each other for twelve years, we have one drink, you claim you never thought about me and that’s it?”
“That’s it,” I say without breaking stride, congratulating myself on getting in the last word for once.
Until I hear him mutter something behind me.