His solemn words root me to the spot. But he can’t possibly mean them, even though every cell in my being says he must. He has the most amazing power to convince me everything he’s saying is true. It’s those grave gray eyes of his.
But we aren’t really dating. I can’t ever forget that and start believing that things between me and Nicholas are real. Not unless I want to have my heart absolutely shredded.
The mood is growing too heavy between us. Time to lighten it up. “Well. Whoever gets to date you for real is a lucky woman,” I say airily.
The light in his eyes dims slightly.
My gut says I’m the cause, but I shake it off and paste on an extra-bright smile. “Since we have only an hour, let’s get going.”
Chapter Fourteen
Molly
It shouldn’t take much time to grab all my things, mainly because I didn’t place all my books on shelves when I moved in with Owen.
“Most of my books are in the garage, except for a couple of boxes in the bedroom,” I say, thinking we can save a lot of time. Ms. Find The Silver Lining—that’s me.
“You never unpacked them?” Nicholas asks with a small, disapproving frown.
I flush as embarrassment worms its way to my heart. Although not having unpacked everything has worked out for the best, it sort of makes me look like a slob. “Owen didn’t want me to take all the space. It isn’t like I read all those books at once.” As the words leave my lips, I register with a mixture of shock and sadness at what a pushover I’ve been with my ex. If the guy in a romance novel said the same, I would’ve tagged him “not book boyfriend material” and said some scathing things about him in a post. I was too dazzled by Owen’s I-love-yous to see all the subtle ways my ex manipulated me to his benefit and convenience, and the realization shames me, although I couldn’t have known his love is as lasting as a rainbow back then. I took him at face value, like a gullible fool.
“What an asshole,” Nicholas mutters. “He never deserved you. You had claim to the living space as much as he did.”
His support has me relaxing as I walk with him through the living room. He puts his hand at the small of my back, the feel of his palm warm and sweet through the thin shirt. Tingling sensations start from the spot where we’re connected and spread. I try not to squirm. He’s expecting a fake girlfriend, and reacting to every little touch isn’t part of the deal. I wish I could channel one of the women who dropped by earlier in the morning. They would’ve known exactly how to play things cool and smooth.
I step over a couple of wadded paper napkins, a crushed beer can and a half-eaten pizza crust. A large, dirty gray sock that used to be white at some point peeks from under the couch Owen occupied earlier.
He isn’t the neatest person, and he probably hasn’t bothered to pick anything up since I went to work yesterday. Sometimes I had to ask, but oftentimes it was easier to just pick things up myself to avoid unpleasant arguments. They never escalated to anything major, but always generated resentment on my part that Ihadto ask, and annoyance on his part that I couldn’t just let him get around to picking up after himself when he felt like it.
A half-eaten slice of blueberry pie sits on the table. His gray eyes flashing with irritation and contempt, Nicholas grabs it and tosses it before I can stop him.
“Owen was probably saving that for later,” I say. But I’m secretly happy Nicholas got rid of the blueberry pie, since I don’t want anything to remind me of my mother’s death. The berries in my dinner last night and the pie in Owen’s kitchen make me suspect he’s being passive-aggressive.
Nicholas gives me aso what?look. “He should know you’re allergic to blueberries and not have anything that could cause you problems in the house.” His lip curls in distaste, and if Owen were here, Nicholas would probably ream him.
It’s surprising that Nicholas remembers, though. I only mentioned it once in passing to Georgia because her boyfriend brought some blueberry tarts. When Nicholas asked if my allergy was fatal, I said no, since I didn’t want anybody to forgo a treat for my sake.
“It’s just some minor discomfort,” I say, in case Nicholas forgot about that part. Most people love blueberries, and I don’t want Nicholas to feel like he has to give them up while we fake-date.
“So? He was your boyfriend, and that’s the least he could do.” Nicholas shakes his head.
“Guess that’s why our relationship went kaboom,” I say lightly. Hearing him talk about what I deserve in a boyfriend is oddly flustering. Although I’ve dreamed of an ideal relationship, I’ve never thought about it in any specific detail because sometimes what I wished for seemed too grand.
Maybe that’s why Owen saying, “I love you,” was enough for me to overlook so many issues. I settled because it seemed foolish to be too picky.
Nicholas and I go to the master bedroom, which has deteriorated significantly in the last twenty-four hours. The fitted sheet is half off the mattress, and a pillow lies on the carpeted floor. Charging cords lie in a tangled ball, and a clear mug half-full of something that appears to be black coffee sits forlornly on the nightstand. I wrinkle my nose at the stale coffee and alcohol permeating the air.
“I was being kind when I said you were slumming here,” Nicholas says in shock. “This is awful.”
I cringe. “It wasn’t this bad when I left.”
“I know it’s him, not you. I saw how neat your apartment was when you were in college. I love my sister, but she has the terrible habit of leaving everything where she last used it. Obviously, Owen is worse. It’s disgusting you had to act like a free maid for him.”
His tone says he would’ve treated me like a queen if we were dating. My belly flutters and my heart clenches oddly. The notion that I could be truly important to somebody is flustering, but exciting as well. Who doesn’t wish they could be the center of someone’s universe? At the same time, I’m afraid if someone gets to know me too well, they might realize I’m nothing special.
Shaking off the unproductive feelings, I pull out my suitcase from the closet and start throwing my things into it, while Nicholas carries the boxes of my books out of the house I no longer live in.
Chapter Fifteen
