The memory burned through me—sharp and sweet and awful all at once.
“I don’t remember,” I lied through my teeth.
His smile flickered, I ignored it, crossing my arms. “This is your fault.”
“My fault.” He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the words. “You reversed into me, and it’s my fault.”
“If you’d parked like a normal human being instead of someone who thinks traffic laws are suggestions?—”
“I parked fine.”
“You parked like you own the zip code.”
“I might.”
“Of course you might.”
We stood there in that parking lot with the California sun beating down on us, the sounds of shopping carts and car doors and distant traffic filling the silence between us. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read—intent, curious, like I was something interesting that had wandered into his path and he hadn’t decided what to do about it yet .
I became aware, suddenly and painfully, that I was wearing old jeans and a sweater with a coffee stain on the sleeve. That my hair was doing whatever it wanted because I hadn’t expected to see anyone who mattered. He looked like he’d walked off the cover of a magazine and I looked like I’d stumbled out of a laundromat at closing time.
Not that it mattered. Not that I cared what Jack Specter thought of how I looked.
“So.” His voice changed, softer now, the sharp edges smoothed away. “How have you been?”
How have I been?
Like we were old friends catching up. He was looking at me with those blue eyes that I used to think could see straight through me.
“Fine,” I said. The word came out clipped and cold.
“Pauline.” He stepped closer. “I know we haven’t talked in a while, but?—”
“A while?” The laugh that escaped me was sharp enough to draw blood. “That’s exactly how I want it.”
“I just meant?—”
“Send me the estimate.” I dug into my purse, found my business card, and thrust it toward him. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
He didn’t take it.
He stepped forward instead—one step, then another—and I stepped back without thinking. My spine hit the side of my car.
He didn’t stop. He kept coming until he was right there. His hand came up and braced against the roof of my Honda, caging me in without quite touching me. I could feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and my heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it.
“You don’t have to pay for anything,” he said, low and quiet, his eyes searching my face like he was looking for something. “The car doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
Because I don’t want to owe you anything. I spent seven years trying to forget you, and you’re standing here smelling like expensive mistakes and I can’t think straight.
“Because I pay my debts,” I gritted, seizing those unwanted thoughts.
Something flickered across his face as I held up the business card between us like a flimsy barrier, paper-thin and useless.
He looked at it, then at me, and his jaw tightened.
