“What do you feel like tonight? Italian? Maybe that sushi place we passed last week?” he asked, voice low but unassuming.
I shrugged, shifting uncomfortably. I was too close to having the lump sum I needed to get insurance to be wasting money on random dinners. I hugged my jacket a little tighter.Sushi’s so expensive.“Italian’s fine.”
He tilted his head.
“By fine, do you mean let’s just get this dinner out of the way, or fine as in ‘I love lasagna and can’t wait’?”
He met my eyes to wait for my answer, as if every time I opened my mouth I had the power to change the course of his day.
The stitching I’d relied on to keep myself together, to keep others out, loosened at the seams because his attention was, had always been, on me. Only it was no longer a tool for watching me fall apart. It was a relentless plea to be let in.
“I’m more of a risotto kind of gal.”
His hand brushed mine once, twice, and by the fourth time, I knew he was testing my reaction. He didn’t grab it, though just kept walking next to me with a message so loud it was deafening. He was there, patient, insistent. The warmth of him seeping possibilities—impossibilities—into me.
At the restaurant, the lighting was low enough to blur edges, to soften the space between us. I licked my lips, tasting my risotto as he leaned back in his chair. Across from me, Lincoln featured his dimpled smile, shoulders loose, without a care in the world. Except his fingers drummed on the table, a quick and uneven rhythm, never settling for longer than a couple of seconds. His fork slipped, cluttering loudly on his plate, a rose hue tinting his cheeks, as he avoided meeting my gaze. It broke through his cocky façade, and I’d never thought out of all people it’d be me who’d make Lincoln Carter flustered.
“How was work?” Work was safe. Work would get that loaded expression off his face.
He looked into my eyes. “It was…. I actually kind of hate it.”
My eyes widened. Lincoln had been obsessed with getting that creative director role. He’d even been more of a dick to me once he realized Curt thought I did good work and maybe had a shot at it.
“The job is fine. I hate the people. The CEO was saying some misogynist shit to Carmen. Everyone acted like it was no big deal. Just everyday crap, you know?”
I nodded. My own meetings with Curt flashed through my mind. “Sweetheart” this; “honey” that. Ihatedgeneric endearments.
“So, you’re friends with Carmen now?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Friends? Maybe. Keep your enemies close. Natasha’s another one. I don’t trust either of them.”
“That makes sense,” I added, sipping some of the white wine Linc had ordered for us to share. “I suppose it must be hard to figure out who to trust in your position.”
He met my eyes over the rim of my glass.
“Not really,” he countered. “I know I can trustyou.”
He pulled the bottle to refill my glass, his knee brushing mine, but neither of us moved away from the touch. My traitorous heart dropped and thundered faster. The dim lighting darkened and deepened the intensity of his blue eyes. I was getting lost in the current of this trust he’d placed in me. And all I could think about was how, for the month I’d been by his side, I didn’t feel unimportant to Lincoln Carter. I was the air he needed to breathe. And I knewair. The right air could keep you alive, and the wrong kind could suffocate you.
I told myself it was nothing. He was just relieved to be alive, to be working again, to not be outright hated by me anymore. Still, when his eyes lingered—so steady, so fierce—I couldn’t help but notice my hate for Lincoln didn’t shine brightly anymore.
Lincoln smiled then, in a self-deprecating way, those dimples etched with sadness, no pretense. So I couldseehim. The vulnerable, broken Lincoln underneath all the entitlement and disdain. He wrapped his hand around mine, over the stem of my wineglass for a second, a second he hadn’t been able to contain himself.
“But I know you don’t trustme.” He exhaled, pulling his hand away. “It’s hard to reconcile what I know with what I feel.” Hefrowned. “It’s like I have most of the pieces of the puzzle, but I still can’t fucking put it together.”
My hand shot out to his, the impulse fast and untamable, but in truth, I watched it happen in slow motion. I could have stopped it, but Iwantedmy hand on his. Iwantedhis warmth and the fluttering in his eyes when I touched him.
“I wish I could hand you the missing pieces,” I admitted. “Even if I told you, they’d be mine, you know? You’d still miss how it felt for you.”
He nodded, leaning in and caressing my knuckles with his thumb.
“Vinny says I did some messed-up things in high school.” He scoffed. “And I thought we’d been sweet.” His eyes shifted back to me, all seriousness and guilt ridden. “I wasn’t sweet to you, was I?”
I shook my head. He’d opened so many wounds; the same wounds he was trying to close, as if my healing was his personal responsibility. It still wasn’t enough.
He squeezed my hand. “And now we can’t move forward. Because I was… whatever I was to you.”
“You can’t know what it’s like…. You’re already at the breaking point and then you have someone fanning the flames of the dumpster fire that’s your life, and all you hear are whispers and gossip. It makes everything worse.”
