I paused. This was the tricky part. “This man would have to love you so much . . . he’d be willing to sacrifice anything for you.”
Her brow crinkled, disturbed. “Like, he’d be willing to die for me? Is that what we’re talking about here? Because I don’t want him to do that.”
“No one’s saying hewill. He just has to be willing to lay it all on the line. As will you for him.”
“Oh, is that all?” She laughed—sharp, bitter—like the world’s worst joke had just been told.
“This shouldn’t surprise you,” I said gently. “This is a quest, after all. Heroics are part of it.”
She bit her lip, and I wanted to nip at it too.
“I don’t expect heroics from him or me,” she murmured. “I just want to fall in love like a normal person.”
I stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to see the tiny flecks of purple in her eyes that hid among the green and blue.
Her breath hitched—sweet and shallow—and I could smell the faint citrus of her shampoo, the salt on her skin.
“Demi,” I said, voice low, “you’re not normal. You never have been.”
She looked up at me, gaze locked on mine, unblinking. Her tongue skimmed her bottom lip, slow and deliberate. She had to know. Had to feel how badly I wanted to kiss her. To pull her against me and lose myself in her mouth.
I closed my eyes for just a moment. Fighting the urge. Fighting everything.
“Demi,” I whispered. “Who were you in love with? Maybe . . . maybe he deserves a second chance.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Maybe,” she whispered, voice trembling.
I both longed and loathed to know who the lucky guy was.
“Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you. At least . . . not right now.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated. Very complicated.”
“Is it Jonas?”
She blinked, like I’d popped the bubble she’d been floating in. Her head shook, slow and certain.
“No,” she was quick to say. Was it almost too quick? “Why are you bringing him up?”
“This is a reality TV show,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You have to know we dig into your past. He’s the only boyfriend we could find of yours.”
I braced for her to pull away. To shut down. To freeze me out. Instead, she smiled—deviously.
“If you’re digging into my past,” she said, overly satisfied, “you won’t find who you’re looking for there.”
“If he’s not in your past . . . where is he?” That made no sense at all.
“I’ll let you know. Maybe. It just depends,” she said, voice lilting, teasing, clearly reveling in having the upper hand.
“Depends on what?”
She didn’t answer. Just grinned—impish, infuriating. I swore she enjoyed torturing me.
