The thirty-three-year-old version of me knows that’s probably true. But hindsight and age are luxuries our past mistakes arenever afforded. “I know that now. But, at the same time, I’m not sure I can regret it.”
She jerks back, her eyes widening as she visibly leans away from me.
I hold up my hand. “Not like that. I regret the way I treated you, but…if I hadn’t left…then we may never have ended up here. We might still be best friends and nothing more. And now that I’ve gotten more of you, there’s no ending to this that will make me wish for anything different.”
The silence stretches between us.
Then she lifts her hand and brushes her thumb over the tattoo. Her fingers trail up my forearm, and my heartbeat skips entirely.
We sit there for a long beat, barely breathing.
“High school me would never have guessed we’d be here,” she says.
“And honestly? I don’t think that even if these feelings had developed on their own, that I would’ve been brave enough to act on them. I wouldn’t have wanted to risk what we had. Though, I guess I did that anyway.”
Izzy picks at the leftover food on her plate, and I remain silent, letting us both digest everything that’s been said.
“You want to go for a drive?” I ask. “I want to show you something.”
We pay quickly, and after a glance at the champagne bottle to confirm how much I’ve had to drink, we jump in my car and head toward Wild Bluffs, the black car my security team uses keeping pace behind us. We pass cornfields and pastures full of grazing cattle as I drive.
The sky is streaked with oranges and lavender. Izzy tucks her feet up in the passenger seat and glances at me like she’s trying to memorize something.
I park just outside the large metal Quonset my dad used to store his grain, the silver reflecting the last rays of sunlight back at us.
“Do you remember this place?”
“The building that we would run amok in anytime we came out to the farm with your dad?” Izzy asks skeptically. “Or where I’d kick your butt in basketball with that hoop I sat on your shoulders to install?”
She laughs when I attempt to grab her. “Yeah, I have a memory or two here,” she confesses.
“Okay, asshole. But do you remember when I brought you out here the night I got my first guitar? You were the first person I ever played for.”
She smiles. “Yeah. I said you were going to be a famous rock star.”
“And you were wrong. Nobody considers country singers rock stars.”
Izzy laughs, and my insides suddenly fill with champagne bubbles. “You’re so pop, you’re barely even country.”
I gasp in mock outrage. “How dare you, Isabel Harper.”
“Just admit I was right.”
Grabbing her around her waist, I pull her to me, wrapping her tightly in my arms. “You were,” I whisper against her neck. “And you’re going to be a big deal, too, Iz. That contract is only the beginning.”
She turns her face toward me. “I don’t want to be a big deal.”
I scrunch my face in confusion. This entire week has been about her getting this client—the one who would allow her and Becca to grow their business.
She must see my expression because she continues, “I just want to be enough, Jax. I don’t need to be famous or rich or any of those things. I just want to feel like I’m not letting down the people around me.”
I pull back just far enough to see her face. “Izzy,” I say, brushing her hair behind her ear, “you’ve always been enough. Without this contract. Without your business. You’re smart, and scrappy, and kind in a way that sneaks up on people. You care so hard you forget to take care of yourself. And you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met—on your business, on your friendships, on everything.”
Her breath hitches, but I keep going.
“And you’re beautiful, Iz. Not just cute or okay-looking. I mean stop-a-man’s-heart stunning with your eyes the shade of the freshly tilled earth and your completely kissable bottom lip. But honestly, it’s the way your mind works that undoes me. The way you speak the truth without it hurting others. The way you manage the moods of those around you with jokes and diversions and questions.”
I cup her cheek. “You are already everything. Anyone who doesn’t see that doesn’t deserve you. But I see it. I see you.”
