For a split second, my brain refuses to process it.
I blink, once, twice, but he’s still there.
Same broad shoulders under that dark jacket, same messy blonde hair that never seems to behave but always looks good anyway, same easy posture that looks both careless and steady at once.
His head turns, scanning the aisle, then his gaze locks on mine.
Everything in me goes still.
Oh, fuck.
“Dean!” Eli squeals the second he sees him, breaking free from my side to barrel toward him. His small arms wrap around Dean’s legs. “You’re here! Did you change your mind about leaving? Are you staying?”
Dean’s confusion flickers, but he recovers quickly, kneeling to Eli’s level, his smile soft but genuine.
He ruffles Eli’s curls. “Hey, buddy. We’re still deciding where to go, me and the guys. Not going anywhere just yet.”
His eyes flick to me, a question in them that I can’t at all answer.
My throat tightens and I can feel the blood drain from my face as I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
I try to act like this isn’t the exact nightmare I’ve been dreading for days, like I haven’t rehearsed this scenario a dozen times in my head on the off-chance I got caught in a lie.
The last thing I expected was getting caught not just by anyone, but byhim.
He didn’t understand why I stormed out of the hotel.
He wasn’t there for the phone call.
All he saw was my fury as I left the suite just as he was returning from asking the front desk a question.
I can’t even bring myself to speak.
My fingers tighten around the cart handle because it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Eli’s face lights up, oblivious to the tension. “Come to dinner at our house tomorrow! For my Grampy’s birthday!”
Dean blinks. He stands, lifting Eli effortlessly into his arms.
The ease of it and the way Eli naturally folds against him hits me square in the chest.
“Family dinner, huh?” Dean says, his tone light and teasing, but there’s another tone underneath it. Slight caution.
Eli’s head whips toward me, curls bouncing, eyes bright and wide. “Please? Can he?”
My lips press together tightly.
I tell myself it’s practical to invite him, and the others.
That it makes sense to sit them all down and talk and explain everything I couldn’t through that phone call the other day.
To finally lay out why what they did was reckless and why they can’t keep storming into my life like they’re a group of vigilante heroes when all they’re really doing is painting targets on our backs.
But deep down, I know it’s not practicality that makes the words form on my tongue.
It’s the pull.
The magnetic, maddening pull of him, andthem,that makes me want to say yes.
