That hits harder than I’m ready for. He means it. That passive-aggressive dig cloaked in civility.Your grief. Your mess. Your weight.The things he couldn’t carry.
Nolan hears it because his fingers tense slightly. His head tilts. He doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a shift behind his eyes.
“So, how’d you two meet?” Quinn asks, like he cares. His fiance’s attention bounces between all of us.
“Oh, we um–”
“Work together,” Nolan cuts in. “Got paired up on a special project.” And then his voice drops an octave, “You ready to go home and… debrief, honey?”
My brows lift.
Nolan’s mouth grazes the shell of my ear. “I’ve got visuals. Charts. Graphs. And a verythoroughpresentation planned. Hands-on demonstration included. You’ll want to take notes.”
Playing along, I elbow him. “Keep it in your pants…honey.”
But I’m smiling.
And I don’t pull away.
Quinn stares for a moment longer, looking like he wants to say something, or defend himself. Maybe ask why I’m glowing in a way I never did with him.
But instead, he says, “Well, nice running into you, Rorie.”
“You too,” I lie with alarming ease. “Congrats, again.”
“Bye.” Paisley’s heels clack against the pavement as they turn away.
When the two love birds disappear into the night, Nolan’s hand slips from mine and I swear he’s fighting the urge to ask meexactlywhat that was about.
I beat him to it. “Don’t.”
His mouth quirks. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Liar.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Voice silk and trouble. “And FYI, you now owe me another Cabernet and Confessions night. Strictly professional, of course. So you can explainwhothe hell that guy was.”
“Definitely a story for another time,” I mutter.
“I’m holding you to it.”
We reach the corner and pause beneath the streetlight. Standing. Breathing. The silence between is full of desire. And unsaid things.
“I had fun,” he says.
“Honestly, me too.” I look down at the ground for a beat then back up at him. “Hey, I want to say I’m sorry. For assuming you were a player. And a flirt. A guy who’s only interested in quick and casual. It was wrong of me to label you. And I could tell how much calling you a fuckboy bothered you back at the wine bar.”
His hand finds mine, not a grab, not even a move. It’s the softest drag of skin across skin.
“Rorie?” he says.
“Yeah?”
His thumb skims the inside of my wrist. Light. Gentle. I meet his gaze, wary, but drawn in.
“Thank you for your apology, but so we’re clear…” Honey-colored eyes find mine. “When I touch you…” A rough knuckle grazes the side of my hand, a stroke so slow and sensual it makes my breath hitch. “It won’t be casual.”
The crosswalk light changes behind him—an unspoken cue to walk away.
