She studies me. Eyes full of caution, like she’s trying to assess the likelihood that I’m being honest—or just another man rewriting history to make himself more palatable.
At last, she says quietly, “Idid.”
My heart stutters. “You did?”
She doesn’t blink. “I texted. About a week later. And then, again… a couple of months after that.”
I go cold.
“Texted,” I repeat, already reaching for my phone like an idiot. “I—I don’t think I ever got any texts from you.”
And just like that, I sound like every other asshole who ghosted a woman and then pretended he had no idea. I’m scrolling. Fast. Pointlessly. It’s been nearly two years.
I consider telling her about the accident.
It’s my instinct. But I worry it will come off as a play for sympathy. Anyway, it doesn’t account for not calling her that first day. Or even the second.
She watches me with that same expression—guarded, hurt, and trying not to show it.
“Well,” she says, her voice light but forced, “maybe your assistant intercepted them.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t screen my texts. I gave you my number because I hoped youwouldreach out. I remember you tucking it into your purse, making a joke—something about book recommendations—but I hoped you would. I hoped it wasn’t a joke.”
Still, she’s silent. Her eyes are glassy now.
I reach across the bar and take her hand. “I kept your note,” I whisper. “I still have it.”
I don’t wait for her to ask.“Aimer, c’est agir.”I remind her.
Her eyes are wide, as if I’ve startled her. Then tears come silently slipping down her cheeks.
“You did?” she asks, her voice a thread.
“I did.”
And then Carter shows up. Of course.
I gently pull my hand away. “Your brother’s about to check in on us,” I say as she wipes her cheeks and forces a smile.
“Hey,” Carter grins, strolling over, “what are you two up to—talking strategy for your bigStep… Together… Stepdown the aisle tomorrow?”
“You caught us,” I say, managing a grin.
“Hey, sis,” he says, turning to Rhea. “Did you ever get anything to eat? They’re boxing up extra chicken and risotto—it’s cold, but it’s all paid for.”
“Actually,” Rhea chuckles, “I’d love some cold chicken and risotto.”
She looks suddenly tired. Vulnerable. But not one bit less beautiful.
Carter turns to me. “How about you, big guy? You into the leftover scene, or does Gina not allow that?”
I laugh. “Why not? I’ll have what she’s having.”
He nods and heads off.
Rhea looks at me, brow pinched. “Gina?”
“My assistant,” I say, then sigh. “The woman who tries to run every corner of my life. The one who once worried you might come back around, looking for a payout.”
