“That’s an incomplete sentence,” he says, and I throw my head back and laugh, then take the champagne from him and drink.
After I swallow two gulps, I wipe my lips and say, “Okay, Mr. Chapman. I’ll spell it out for you. It made me think of how you’d be as a father figure.”
“I like when you call me Mr. Chapman,” he laughs and takes the neck of the bottle of champagne.
I pause, turning to face him. When our eyes meet, I want to hide from his expression. It burns through me. There’s heat and fire, yes, but more than that, there’s an intimacy and a vulnerability that feels like once upon a time he knew me. Even if he only knew me for months. Not years. Not a lifetime. And yet, when I look at him, a lifetime plays in my mind in flashes.
“I like all your names,” I say finally.
His lips curve into a smile, and my gaze falls onto the freckle on his bottom lip. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but if I could guess, it’s probably my lips.
I blink and turn away. I will kiss a lot of frogs, but never someone else’s fiancé.
“She cheated on you,” I say. It’s a statement. A bold one and entirely none of my business, but his family told me themselves over turkey and lasagna. He scratches the back of his neck, the mention of the infidelity making him itch. “Is she good to you now at least?”
He nods once, a tender hesitancy in his eyes.
“You didn’t deserve that.”
“I know,” he says, his voice low and deep. “I want you to know we weren’t in the best place when it happened and she admitted it right away.”
“Ah, an honest cheater,” I muse.
He tilts his head. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
I smile at his defense of her despite me wanting someone better for him, despite me liking her even with the knowledge of her indiscretion. “I hope so. I hope she knows that hurting you is the biggest mistake she’ll ever make. I hope she knows life without you is filled with regret, and I hope she spends the rest of her life making it up to you.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence between us.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair.
I move away six painful inches. “Tell me what? That you got back together with Audrey?” I shrug. “It’s okay. I encouraged it, didn’t I? I told you to go date. I told you not to wait. You went back to Greece. You stopped texting. You fell in love.” I force a smile. “It’s okay. I’m happy for you.”
The facts land all over his expression. There’s so much hurt embedded there. So many questions. So many reservations. Finally, he answers, “She’s a good person, Jules.”
I nod rigidly. “I’m sure she is. She seems lovely.” The admission feels like drowning while simultaneously being fed sand.
“I just don’t know how to reconcile seeing you, I guess,” he admits with champagne honesty.
I nod once. “Don’t act like you have cold feet and say I’m the one who gave you the ice.”
He laughs and drags a hand down his face until the brightness in his eyes fades.
“If you knew I was here you wouldn’t have cared. It’s the shock of seeing someone you—” I hesitate. “It’s the shock of seeingmeout of context and wondering if I’m going to tell your fiancée I had sex with you.”
He laughs again.
“I won’t, by the way,” I say, even though it feels a little icky being his dirty little secret. “It’s not like we’ll ever see each other again.”
He smiles at me, and his hair falls over his forehead. I fight the urge to brush it away.
“Audrey wants to invite you to the wedding.” The words aren’t abrupt, but the suggestion feels such. Based on her mild accusations earlier, she probably wants to keep her enemy close. But I’m not her enemy—I don’t play those games.
“Please don’t.” I laugh, then press the bottle of champagne to my lips and take a small sip.
I hand over the remaining bubbles. He finishes it. The bottle dangles in his hand as he holds it below his waist. I’m still leaning against the counter next to him. We’re both staring at the stove dividing us across the tiled floors.
“I want to see you in Chicago,” he says, his words cutting into the silence.
