“Why would you say that?”
“Because my darling…” She squishes my cheeks between her palms. “It’s written all over your beautiful face.”
“Well, whatever.” I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Dice doesn’t do relationships. And even if he did, long distance would never work.”
“Have you told him?”
“No.” I scrunch up my nose. “That would be weird and awkward.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t love me like that.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“I bet Dice would say the same thing about you, and he’d be wrong too.”
This week with him has been fast. Heavy. Full of moments I can’t unfeel. Evenings at Docks—Dice behind the bar, charming every customer. Me in the office with Queenie, juggling client projects and designing graphics for his weekend parties.
He loved everything I showed him but picked the sketch of himself wearing shades and an open shirt, spinning behind the deck. Spray-painted graffiti above his head readsRoll up withDJ Dice!Below it, there’s a pair of dice rolled to lucky sixes.
Most nights ended up with us plastered together—in bed, on the couch, on his weight bench, even on the floor—clinging to what little time we had.
On Tuesday, I taught him how to make stir-fry. He nailed it. Smug as hell when I admitted his tasted just as good as mine. Afterward,we drove to the waterfront, watched the sunset, and fucked in the back seat with the sky turning from pink to indigo.
And last night, after closing, I played bartender, experimenting with shots I drank off his body. We didn’t even make it to the back room before he had me pinned to the cooler, pants around my ankles, moaning into his shoulder.
But something’s been off.
Not all the time. Moments. Little drifts. Like something’s tugging at the edges of his thoughts and pulling him away. I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.
I’ve been off too. I can feel the countdown ticking between us. Every smile feels like goodbye. Every kiss tastes like something we’re not ready to lose.
That doesn’t mean Dice is in love with me. No matter how much I wish it were true.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dice
The gray zone.
The hour drive to Lakehead is all winding roads, dunes dressed in the last breath of winter, and steel-blue water dancing under the sun. One of my mixes plays low in the background. A neo soul compilation layered with jazz, funk, and Afrobeats.
Lot’s socked feet are propped up on the dashboard, black leggings, a fitted tee beneath her bomber jacket that readsUntamed. Unhinged. Unapologetic.It’s so her, it brought a grin to my face the second I saw it this morning. She’s humming to the music, body gently swaying in her seat, eyes on the lake, but I doubt she’s really seeing it. Her thoughts are back in Bayside, on Queenie, although she’d never admit it.
Tonight’s a trial sleepover at her mom’s after a couple of positive visits. Lot’s trying to convince herself this is what’s best for her and Queenie. I disagree; they’re a perfect pair, but she gets annoyedwhenever I say that. Instead, I reach over and curl my fingers around hers.
She glances down at our hands, then up at me, a small, wistful smile that hits deep. The weight of borrowed time. Two more nights.
Damn.
We roll into Lakehead just after one. It’s smaller than Bayside. More rustic. The kind with wooden signs, hand-knitted everything in shop windows, and little cafés where the owners cook, serve, and know everybody by name.
The inn is nestled in a wooded area off the main road, with cedar shingles and a porch swing out front. Inside, it smells like firewood. The room’s not fancy, but it’s got a king bed, thick blankets, a great view of the water, and a private hot tub. I toss our bags on the armchair while Lot pokes her head into the bathroom, then walks over to the window.
“This is really nice, Jones. Great pick.”
