This was how they were around each other now. Too polite.
“I’m goin’ to hunker down with that dragon book you were pestrin’ me to read.”
Her smile flickered, but it didn’t light up her face like it used to. “Be prepared for fast flying, sword fighting, and wars between realms. There’s also romance. Which, in my humble opinion, is what takes a book from good to great.”
“Mmm,” was all he said, because she didn’t want to hear what he wanted to say.
Romance is what takes a life from good to great. I love you, Sabrina. Say ya love me, too, and I promise ya more adventure than either of us will ever find in a book.
They stared at each other then, each waiting for the other to speak. To say something real. To find the one word or phrase that would return them to how they used to be.
Neither of them did.
Neither of them could.
And that silence…that chasm of everything unsaid…was the most desolate place on earth.
“Right.” She finally nodded. “Guess I’ll see you later, then.”
For the briefest second, he saw sadness flicker in her eyes. Or maybe he was projecting his own thoughts and feelings onto her—hoping to see his own melancholy mirrored back to him—because she quickly turned, and he was left to listen to her heels tapping down the hall.
With each echoing footfall, he would swear she dragged a piece of him with her. And the farther she went, the hollower he became until he was nothing but an empty shell standing in the hallway.
He waited until he heard her step off the last tread before he trudged into the TV room. With a defeated sigh, he sank onto the couch, picked up the damned dragon book from the coffee table, and opened it to the first page.
No matter how hard he focused, though, he couldn’t stop the words from blurring. He kept imagining Sabrina sitting across a candlelit table from Martin Massey, laughing that laugh and smiling that smile that Hew hadn’t heard or seen in days.
That he feared he might never hear or see again.
39
North Cherry Avenue, Chicago
Two hours later, Sabrina pointed to the curb. “Here’s fine.”
Martin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. A line appeared between his perfect eyebrows. “I’ll take you to your gate.”
“I’d like to walk. It helps clear my head.”
His jaw sawed back and forth in indecision. Clearly, he hated the idea of leaving her to her own devices in the middle of the city.
Ever the gentleman, she thought with a dejected twist of her lips.
“It’s only a few blocks to the compound. I’ll be fine,” she assured him softly.
“If you’re sure.” There was still hesitation in his voice.
“I’m sure,” she said. Then she waited for him to execute a perfect parallel park between two SUVs. He made the move look easy when, in fact, she knew it wasn’t—hence the dent in the side panel of her Prius.
Truly, the man had no flaws.
Except for the fatal flaw of not being Hewitt Birch, she thought sadly.
After he put the Mercedes in park, she turned in her seat and placed a hand on his arm. His suit was made of the finest French linen, smooth and cool beneath her fingers. It slid over his forearm like water over iron, doing little to disguise the strength of the man beneath it.
“Thank you, Martin. For tonight. For everything,” she whispered, meaning every word.
Her smile was a quiet curve of lips that she hoped spoke of the things she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud. Things like how they might have stood a chance at something rare and remarkable if life had been different—if she had been different.
