If he only knew how good.
Dad quickly chats with Jameson before he’s pulled away, and I use the time to collect myself. When I glance toward Patterson’s table, he’s deep in conversation with Mila, her hand on his arm, her body angled toward his, and they’re playing the part, like me.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and champagne that I start chugging. By the time Jameson suggests we head out, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the hour, because performing wears me down.
We slide into the back of the town car, and Manhattan blurs past the windows as we head toward my apartment. He’s so easy to be around, so uncomplicated, and I remember why I said yes when he proposed all those years ago, because being withJameson feels safe, like sitting in a warm bath instead of being plunged into cold water.
On the way back to my apartment, I keep hearing Patterson’s voice repeat in my head.“Tell him it’s over. Make it crystal clear.”
The city lights paint shadows across his face, and I’m struck again by how much they look alike. They have the same bone structure and blue-green eyes, but where Patterson is all tension and edges, Jameson is comfortable and approachable.
The car slows in front of my place, and I turn to him.
“Good night, Kendall. Had fun,” he says.
I should let him go, say good night, and disappear inside, but Patterson’s demand echoes in my head, and I realize I need to know for certain that there’s nothing left between Jameson and me. I need to close this door completely.
“Actually, do you want to come up for a bit? I have wine or tequila, and I think we should talk.”
His smile is kind. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Jameson pays the driver before I can protest and follows me up the stairs. I let us into my apartment, flipping on lights and heading toward the kitchen while he looks around at the canvases stacked everywhere.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, examining the stack of paintings leaning against the wall. He moves closer and bends down to look at Callan’s portrait. “Wow, Kendall. You’re so damn talented. Like, you were good before, but this is … I’m blown away and so proud of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing two glasses and the bottle of red I opened yesterday.
He moves through the room, and I watch him, trying to find the spark that used to be there when he smiled at me. I remember the warmth that would spread through me when hetouched my hand, and I search for it in the familiar curve of his face and in how he’s being overly flirty.
“Remember when you used to paint me?” He turns to look at me, his eyes full of nostalgia. “You did that series for your portfolio, and I had to sit still for hours.”
“Oh, please. You were terrible at sitting still, even when you tried,” I say, meeting him in the living room. I kick off my shoes and hand him a glass of wine.
“I was terrible at a lot of things.” He crosses to where I’m standing and takes the glass from me, setting it down. “I think I need to kiss you, Kendall.”
“Okay,” I whisper, needing this closure.
His lips are soft and achingly familiar, and I let myself sink into it for a moment, testing and searching for something that used to be there. His hands find my waist and pull me closer, and I wait for the heat to build, for the desperation I feel with Patterson.
He kisses me back, trying harder, like he’s wanting to feel something beyond the mechanical press of mouths. He deepens the kiss, and I let him, my hands moving to his shoulders out of muscle memory rather than desire. I go along with it, still hoping, still searching.
He kisses down my neck, and I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the spark to ignite, waiting for some sign that the years apart have changed something.
“Kendall …” His voice is rough when he pulls back to look at me, and then he laughs. “This isn’t working.”
“It’s not,” I tell him, almost relieved that we’re being honest about it.
“I thought maybe …”
“There was still something between us,” I finish for him. “There’s not.”
We both stand there as two people who planned an entire future together, but are now like strangers.
“I don’t feel anything,” he confirms.
“I don’t either,” I tell him.
He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a breath. “You know, there was a point when I thought maybe I’d made a mistake ending things with you.”
