"How do you know that?"
"He left."
"That's what you both wanted, isn't it?" she asks.
Yes. At the time, it made sense.
He had a life in London. I had a life in New York. I was only a year into school. And it was a struggle. Everything was a struggle.
"Indie?" she asks.
"It seemed like the right thing to do."
"But you missed him." It's not really a question.
So I don't answer.
"He made you come. He made you swoon. You still like him. And now he wants to see you again. Why not?"
"Because it's not the same for him."
"How?"
It's a good question. I don't have an answer. Only excuses about not wanting to get hurt. "He did invite me to dinner."
She claps her hands together. "And by dinner you mean his apartment?"
"Will you be okay on your own?"
"Yes. Definitely." She sucks boba through her straw. "And if you want to stay the night… that's okay too." She winks.
I shake my head. Check my cell again.
Indigo: Dinner. If you'll explain.
Ty: Seven. At the Italian place.
There are a thousand Italian places in New York City, but there's only one he could mean: The place we had our first real date.
Which means there are less than three hours until I'm face-to-face with him.
And everything I like about him.
Chapter Six
Ty
I spend fifteen minutes steeling myself, but still, I melt the second she enters.
The Indigo I met three years ago. The same deep blue eyes and sharp features. And the new version of her: hesitant expression, tall boots, short, blunt haircut.
The edgy, asymmetrical look suits her.
And it shows off her neck. Like she's asking for my lips, teeth, hands.
Fuck, I want to touch her. I always want to touch her. Every time I think of her.
Right now—
I need to lay her on this table, roll her knickers to her ankles, spread her thighs.
No negotiations, no terms, no ugly memories.
Her under my control. Groaning my name as she comes on my face.
She stops at the table. Sets her simple black purse on the red cloth. Offers her hand.
I stand. Shake. Motion for her to sit.
She does.
"I ordered a bottle," I say.
"Champagne again?" She raises a brow celebrating already, how presumptuous.
Is there humor in it?
Or does she think the worst of me now?
It matters to me. She matters to me.
Sure, I'm not going to fall in love.
And I don't want her falling in love with me.
But I want her comfortable, safe, cared for.
"Red wine," I say. "Unless you no longer adore arrabbiata."
She crosses one leg over the other. "You drink wine now?"
"When in Rome."
"Of course." Her gaze flits to the server as he drops off a bottle. He pours. Nods goodbye. Disappears.
Indigo's eyes find mine. That same deep, dark blue. That same curiosity.
Once upon a time, she wanted everything in my heart.
Now, I don't know.
I don't have a read on her. Or the way my pulse is racing.
It's not just the snug dress. Or the pendant between her perfect tits. Or the flush of her cheeks.
I want to tear off her clothes and I want to ask about her day. Her year. Her life.
She wraps her fingers around the stem. Takes a long sip. Marks the glass with her lipstick.
"You like it?"
She nods. "I don't drink a lot of wine. Mostly whiskey with customers at work."
My skin crawls at the thought of some rich arsehole nagging her to share a shot. "The same place?"
She leans back in her seat. "You don't know?"
"Do you want me to?"
She traces the rim of her glass. "Does it matter what I want?"
Of course. "I went there looking for you."
Her eyes fill with surprise. "When?"
"A month ago. I went every night for a week straight. Eventually, the bartender recognized me. She asked if I was looking for you."
"Were you?"
"It didn't occur to me, but I was. I missed you." The words are awkward on my tongue. They're true. Too true. I have missed her. I shouldn't.
We spent a summer together. Then we parted. And I moved on.
I was engaged, for fuck's sake.
"You missed me?" Doubt spreads over her expression. "Really?"
"You haven't missed me?"
Her eyes move over me slowly. "I wasn't engaged to someone else."
"You've spent the last three years single?"
She picks up her glass. Takes another sip. "I haven't had a lot of time for dating. Though I imagine you already know that." Her throat tightens. Some mix of anger—who do I think I am, knowing her business—and grief.
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Thank you." Her eyes go to the table. She stares at it, looking for something, not finding it. "I'm sorry your fiancée left."
"Are you?"
Her eyes trace a line across the table, up my deep blue tie, my jaw, lips, nose, eyes.
I let silence fall. Watch her study me. Look for cracks.
Are they there? The last year—
I'm not myself. I'm not the tough, in control, impossible to rattle man I used to be.
I need to get there. To find that person.
The man who is never distracted. Who isn't afraid of loss or vulnerability.
Who isn't afraid of anything.
The server interrupts us. With two plates. Shrimp arrabbiata.
Her favorite.
She shakes her head. Stifles a laugh. "You ordered for me?"
"You don't want it?"
"I do." She picks up her fork. Stabs a piece of penne. "But it's presumptuous."
"You didn't always mind."
"Things change."
They do. And I need to up my game if I'm going to convince her.
She still works that awful job. Laughing at bad jokes, letting men leer at her tits, trading on her youth and beauty.
They offer her cash for sex. They did three years ago. That wouldn't change just because she's cut her hair.
She needs money.
Has she ever said yes?
Some arsehole who sees her as a warm spot for his dick—
Who doesn't deserve her—
The thought makes my stomach turn.
But where do I get off? It's not like I spent the last year fucking women who saw into my soul.
And I have options.
She's broke. At risk of losing her apartment. Of not paying her sister's tuition. Of working this shitty job until she's too old to play the part of the pretty, young thing.
What then?
I don't like that future for her.
"Fuck." She groans over her pasta. "This is better than I remember."
My chest warms. Her bliss still satisfies me. It still fills me with an intense need to take care of her.
"Still presumptuous." She swallows another bite. "But really fucking good."
My eyes stay on her as she brings another forkful to her lips.