I hold out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
“My … why?” He’s already pulled it out.
“Unlock it. I’ll give you my number, in case you ever want to talk.”
Aaron hands me his phone, opened to a new contact. I type in my number, then pass it back to him.
“I’ve wanted to ask for your number for weeks.” He smiles ruefully, staring at the screen.
“Congratulations. You got it.”
“Thanks, Wren. Really.”
“Of course.” I nudge his shoulder again. “I mean it. Use it whenever.”
“I will.”
I stand, sensing he might want a minute alone. “See you downstairs?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “See you downstairs.”
I leave, getting pulled into a conversation with a couple of the other waitresses as soon as I reenter the kitchen. I procrastinate until the last possible second, but finally announce that I have to go, shooting Aaron a flirty wink as I pass him by on my way to the front door. The guyssurrounding him hoot and holler, and I doubt a single one would guess what really happened upstairs.
Outside, I suck in a deep breath of cool, salt-scented air. For someone who grew up in hectic New York and chose a smoggy city for college, I’m coming to love the uninhabited presence of having the ocean nearby. Of no sound, except for waves pounding sand or seagulls shouting commentary, and the space it allows you to think.
Not that my thoughts have been an amiable companion lately. And they become even more volatile when I reach the street and spot a tall figure leaning against the side of my convertible. I panic, register who it is, and freak out for an entirely different reason.
His arms are flexed, gripping the doorframe since I left the window and roof down, his posture casual. Yet my heart riots in my chest like he’s a predator, poised to strike. Because I’ve never told him—and I’ve done my damnedest to pretend otherwise—that he’s one of very few people with the power to hurt me. I know—because hehashurt me.
I suck in a deep, bracing breath as I reach my car.
Sawyer doesn’t look mad—doesn’t look anything—but I instinctively know this will be a battle. All of our recent conversations have been battles, with no clear winner or loser. With no clear purpose at all, which are the most dangerous conflicts.
“You leaving?” he asks without really looking at me. He’s staring in what I think is the direction of the ocean, jaw working a couple of times as a muscle there clenches, then relaxes.
“Yeah. Curfew.”
“Lame.”
“Says the guy who left the party to … lean against my car?”
Sawyer says nothing in response.
“Don’t fuck up the paint job,” I add snidely to emphasize I noticedhe was out here waiting for me and for him to explain why.
He shoves away from the side of the car without sharing any reasoning. “Have fun?”
There’s a low, dangerous undercurrent to his question. One that suggestsyesis the wrong answer.
“Yes.”
“Great,” he says, tone implying the opposite.
“I can do whatever I want, Cap.”
“You can,” he agrees, stepping closer.
Emboldened, I add, “It’s none of your business what I?—”
