We stand there, awkward and painful, and all I want to do is pull her into my arms. To kiss her until neither of us can breathe. I want to apologize to her for walking away. But there are people watching. Her friends. My brothers. Half the damn bar. Before I can get up the courage to say anything, Ford appears at my shoulder. “Why don’t you ladies join us? We’ve got plenty of room at our table.”
“We don’t want to intrude,” Maggie says politely.
“You’re not intruding,” Everett says, appearing on my other side with that charming smile he uses on everyone. “We insist. Any friends of Jax’s are friends of ours.”
“We’re not …” Sloane starts, but Riley cuts her off.
“We’d love to,” she says, eyeing Everett with interest. “Lead the way.”
I want to protest. Want to say this is a terrible idea. But Sloane’s already following her friends, carefully not looking at me, and I have no choice but to follow.
Dinner is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
We’re all crammed around a table meant for six, and somehow, I ended up sitting directly across from Sloane. Which means I can’t not look at her. Can’t not notice every time she shifts in her seat. Can’t not hear every word she says to her friends. My brothers, of course, are having the time of their lives.
“So, Riley,” Everett says, leaning forward with that smile. “What do you do?”
“I’m a graphic designer,” she says. “You?”
“Helicopter pilot. Best damn pilot in the area, too.” He flexes.
Riley laughs. “Modest.”
“Modesty is overrated when you’re the best,” he answers cockily.
Ford is talking to Maggie, asking about her job as a lawyer, and she’s responding with that cool professionalism that seems to be her default. But I can see the hint of a smile when Ford makes a joke about lawyer stereotypes. Mason and Colt are asking about Denver, about the drive up here, about their plans for the rest of the trip. Normal, polite conversation that fills the awkward silence.
Because Sloane and I, we’re not talking.
She’s picking at her food, barely eating, her eyes fixed on her plate. Every so often, she’ll glance up, and our eyes will meet, and it’s like being hit by lightning. Painful and electric and impossible to ignore.
“So, Jax,” Riley says suddenly, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Sloane tells us you’re quite the Monopoly player.”
I swallow hard. “She told you that?”
“She’s told us a lot about you,” Riley says, and there’s something pointed in her tone. “About your farm. Your sandwich-making techniques. Your love of Christmas movies.”
Sloane’s face goes red. “Riley …”
“What? I’m just making conversation.” Riley takes a sip of her beer. “She’s been talking about you nonstop for a week. Hasn’t shut up about you, really.”
“Riley!” Sloane looks mortified.
“Same with him. Hasn’t shut up about Sloane. Sloane this, Sloane that,” Everett adds teasing.
“Fuck you,” I say, punching my brother in the stomach, which makes him roar laughing.
Sloane won’t meet my eyes. “I ... we should go.”
“We just got here,” Maggie protests gently.
“I need air.” Sloane stands abruptly, nearly knocking over her water glass. “Excuse me.” She heads for the door, moving fast, and I’m on my feet before I can think.
“Sloane, wait …” She ignores me as I run after her. I find her outside, leaning against the wall of the bar, arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She’s not crying, but her eyes are red, like she’s fighting it.
“Sloane,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t look at me. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
