In the reflection, I can see him smiling, too. The doors open and he follows me to my room while my pulse beats like a drum.
Do not invite him in,my logical brain tells me.Say goodnight and close the door.
At my door, he lifts a hand to rest on the doorframe, watching as I slide his jacket off and give it back to him.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He studies me, studies the key card I’m toying with in my hands. “Have I told you that you look beautiful tonight?”
I shake my head. “Lovely, you said.”
He makes a low noise, like that isn’t good enough. “Well, you do. Look beautiful, that is. Extremely. It’s—” he runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, like it’s a problem. “Distracting.”
So I’m lovely and beautiful and he’s paying for dinner and telling me to cuddle with him and, and—I shake my head, confused and frustrated.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper. I want what I can’t have. “You said I wasn’t an option. You laughed. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”
Shock flashes across his features. “You agreed with me.”
“Of course I did. You’re embarrassed to be attracted to me?—”
He opens his mouth but I hold a hand up.
“You don’t get to tell me you’re jealous”—his jaw tightens and his hands come to his hips—“and in practically the same breath, tell me I’m not good enough.”
“Not good enough?” Outrage lights up his eyes.
“And now you think I’m ‘beautiful’?” I do the finger-quote motion. “Are you kidding me, Tate?”
He looks at me like I’m speaking another language. “When did I ever say you weren’t good enough?”
“The night I watched Bea. You told me it was never going to happen.”
My face is going red. Every insecurity laid out on display.
“Youlaughed,like I was dumb teenager with a crush on you. I know you don’t want me, or you don’t want to want me. I know you’re probably embarrassed by it. And I know I’m not the polished, five-foot-ten news anchor you normally date, who has a gorgeous apartment and a mortgage and a bunch of journalism awards?—”
“Jordan.” His expression is incredulous, and very, very angry. “What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I rub my temples. I’m rambling. “None of this matters. I know that. You have an incredible kid who isn’t even a little bit annoying, which means I will never, ever even think about messing around with you.”
Liar. Little pants-on-fire liar. I’ve thought about it too many times to count.
I get a shocking jolt of self-consciousness. What am Idoing? This isn’t me, laying out all my vulnerable truths. I’m cold and rude and detached. Or, I used to be, before Tate pried me open.
“You know what?” I reach for the door. “Let’s just?—”
He steps in my way. “Jordan, stop.”
His hand comes to mine, pushing it away from the door, and something settles inside me, either from his touch or his low, steady tone.
“Let’s get something clear. I never said you weren’t good enough.” His tone is firm and he holds my eyes with an intoxicating intensity, eyes sharp and determined.
“I filled in the blanks.”
“You filled them in wrong.”
His fingers come beneath my chin, tipping my face up, but I close my eyes, listening to my heart beating in my ears.
