“Didn’t peg you for a fan of Macallan,” I say, testing the waters.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says, his tone tinged with bitterness.
My heart sinks, my smile turning to a frown.
“You’re right.” I lick my lips. “I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t know about you. But I’d like the chance to learn them,” I say softly.
Cam crosses his arms as he looks at his menu. He doesn’t answer me, but that’s fine.
He’s stillhere.Sitting across from me. Even if I do all the talking tonight, it’s a victory because he’shere.
A moment of silence passes as our waitress comes with our drinks, dropping them off and taking our orders. When she leaves, I reach for my wine, swirling it around the glass. I watch its legs—the viscosity of the liquid—as it clings to the inside, dripping down slowly until it returns from whence it came.
“Austen,” he says, letting out a heavy breath as he clutches his glass. I can see the slightest tremble in his shoulders.
“Yes?” I ask, waiting for him to continue. Waiting for him to get whatheneeds off his chest.
I’ve thought about this moment for seven years.
I’ve gone over every scenario I could think of, and I still can’t believe we’re here.
“What are we doing here?” he asks solidly, sipping his drink.
“We are having dinner. Talking,” I say as I set my arm on the table. The black rim of my watch catches the light, and I notice Cam’s gaze as it falls to my wrist.
My fingers play with the base of the wine glass, and suddenly the overwhelming weight pressing on my heart is too much.
I catch his gaze, my insides twisting like a hurricane. There are a million things I want to say.
A hundred things I’d practiced saying, even before we came out here tonight.
But none of those things actually come out of my mouth.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I say, my voice barely a whisper as the memories resurface.
I pull my hand back from the base of my wine glass, curling my fingers into a fist.
Cameron sighs, taking a long drink.
“You think that fixes everything?” he asks, but his voice is tired.
“No,” I say honestly. “But it’s the truth. I didn’t want to hurt you, but—”
Tears threaten my eyes, but I hold them back. I need to do this without falling apart.
“But you did,” Cameron says solidly.
It’s no use. The tears swell in my eyes. “I did.”
Cam relaxes in his chair as he sets his glass down, his arm settling on the table. His palm remains open, his fingers just inches away from mine.
My gaze settles on it, remembering the warmth of his palm on my skin, the firmness of his grasp on my neck.
My cock twitches with its own admissions, and my jaw tenses. I cross my legs under the table, trying to kill the sudden hardness forming from the memory I try to bury constantly, but that which never truly rests.
I unfurl my fist, flexing my fingers so they trace the edges of my wine glass. I stare at that open palm, wanting to know if it’s still as warm as I remember.
But I don’t touch him.
