“It does not.”
“Check for yourself,” he offers.
“Where’s the card?”
“In my back pocket.”
“You think I won’t.”
“I know you won’t.”
I move until I’m facing him and reach my hand around his waist. He just watches me, not fighting me, as I slip my fingers into the back pocket of jeans, silently cursing at how hard that ass is. Does he do fucking squats in his sleep?
“Blaire?”
“Hmm?”
“If you want to grab my ass, at least buy me dinner first.”
“Shut up,” I say, pulling the postcard free. Pretending as though I’m not affected by his teasing words. “For the record, that wasn’t an ass grab. Trust me, you’llknowif I grab your ass.” I skim the question side of the postcard looking for rules as we wait for the volunteers to sign us off for activity number two.
Shit. He’s right.No passes allowed.
“Well?” Thatcher says. “Did the bastard cheat on you?”
“No. And before you ask, no I did not cheat on him.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that.” The way he says it feels like a warm, comforting hug. He’s the first person who hasn’t questioned my faithfulness since I called off the wedding. Even my own parents, as understanding as they’ve been, still asked that.
“Why not?”
“Because I know you’re not that kind of person, Blaire.”
A layer of ice thaws from around my heart, and tears threaten the corners of my eyes. I look away until I get myself under control and finally answer him. “I called my wedding off becausehe canceled my flower order without consulting me. He told the florist we were going with fake flowers to save money.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You asked, that’s the answer.” I swallow the urge to tell Thatcher everything, certain that would be the easiest way to make the rest of the afternoon wildly uncomfortable. How do I explain to anyone that my ex-fiancé is the cheapest millionaire I know? It sounds so superficial. The truth is far more complicated than fake flowers.
“My turn to ask a question,” I say. “Why do you hate Valentine’s Day?”
“Where’s the fucking pass when you need one,” he mutters.
“Doesn’t feel so good when you’re the one in the hot seat, does it?”
“I broke up with the woman I thought I was going to marry two days before Valentine’s Day. I thought I was going to propose to her, but instead of pulling out the ring I bought her at dinner, I broke up with her instead. I didn’t even know I was going to do it. But she made this comment about how we should’ve waited to have the nice dateonValentine’s Day because it would sound so much better when she posted about it.”
“That’s awful.”
“I know it wasn’t my best move?—”
“I meant ofher,” I clarify. “Valentine’s Day is supposed to be about celebrating the love between two people. Not exploiting it for views.”
A woman with a red lanyard around her neck and a camera in hand approaches us. “Are you two ready for your picture?”
“Do we have to?” Thatcher jokes, pulling off the blanket we’ve been sharing and handing it to the woman.
“It’s not the worst one I’ve seen today,” the woman teases.
