I look at him, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m done with sport.”
“Modelling pays better, does it?”
“I’m done with that, too.”
“How come? Were your arse cheeks starting to droop?”
His smile grows wider.
My God.Don’t do it. Don’t stare at his lips. Don’t think about them. Don’t fantasize about them.
Those lips have nothing to do with you.
“My arse is just fine. And I think you know that already.”
“Well, you shouldn’t believe all the articles you read. We both know that PhotoShop can work miracles.”
“That’s not the case.”
“So why have you given it up?”
“I’m just not interested in it anymore.”
“Something else you’ve got bored of?”
“It was just time to stop.”
“Are you thinking of finally getting your head looked at?” I wind him up some more.
He shakes his head. “It’s time to get back what I left behind.”
I sigh, and it hurts.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Then don’t, especially not if you can’t finish what you started.”
“Touché.”
“I’d better go.”
“Please, just stay another minute.”
“I don’t see why I should.”
“Because I’m asking you.”
“And you always get everything you ask for, right?”
“Jesus, Casey. If only it were that simple.”
Hearing my name on his lips has always had the same effect. No one else can say it like that, as if the whole alphabet were hiding in those five letters, fusing together to make the sweetest, sexiest words in the world.
“Eight years, Nick. That’s a long time.”
“I know,” he says, sighing heavily.
