“You still want her?”
I nod once.
“Then figure it out. Before someone else does.”
I give him a look, but it’s half-hearted. “You think this island trip is gonna kill me?”
“If Rorie’s there? Yeah. It’s gonna be your own personal hell.”
“She’ll be there.”
The cue ball spins to a stop. And so do I. Because somewherebetween the silence, the sparks, and the mistake I can’t stop regretting, I already know.
It’s her.
It’s always been her.
Even when I tried to pretend it wasn’t.
CHAPTER 33
HOUSTON, WE HAVE A NOLAN
RORIE
Shall I grace you with another exclusive selfie of my elbow?
Oh, thank God. I was worried I’d never see the elusive wenis again.
What’s next? A scandalous shot of your kneecap?
I don’t know if I’m prepared for this level of intimacy.
You joke, but I’ve got a whole folder of body part close-ups.
Next stop: my slightly asymmetrical big toe. You’ve been warned.
It’s a shame you’re wasting all that talent on mac and cheese taste-testing when your true calling is clearly avant-garde photography.
The world just isn’t ready for my abstractelbow era.
Facts.
Side Bar…what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ordered on the menu just to say you tried it?
Octopus and foie gras…mainly for the aesthetic.
Interesting. That’s the opposite of what I expected.
I’m full of surprises.
That you are.
Tell me the one meal that could fix your whole day?
My God, what is with the weird food questions?
I’m curious
