My breath catches. His words are dangerous. So very dangerous.
Because an irrational part of me couldn’t agree more.
I can’t let it get the better of me. I can’t do anything that will drag him deeper into my life and unending uncertainty.
“It was one night,” I say. But we both know I’m lying.
“Didn’t feel like one.”
No. It didn’t.
“Doesn’t look like one, either,” he says, voice low and grumbly.
I look away first because that’s the problem. That part of me last night—drunk, wild, loud—wanted proof. But maybe the quieter more sober part of me does, too.
Memories wash back over me as I pour cream into my coffee.A dark dive bar with quiet country music.I touch my fingers to my lips, mind wandering.
“I put on your hat,” I say, cheeks flushing. “Without permission.”
He nods once, jaw tightening. “You had my permission.”
“Phoenix,” I say carefully.
“Donovan,” he corrects.
That stops me.
“Donovan,” I try again.
His expression softens just a fraction. “Better.”
I swallow. “We should get it annulled.”
There it is… the safe choice. The right one. The only thing that makes any sense.
Because the rest of my life doesn’t.
But how do I make him see this when there’s so much I still can’t tell him?
He doesn’t react right away. Just takes a sip of his coffee like we’re talking about the weather. “Okay,” he says finally.
Okay?
That’s it?
Something sharp flickers in my chest, but I ignore it. “We can go today,” I add. “Before we leave.”
“Sure.”
The word comes out too calm and steady. Not a hint of hesitation or regret. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. In fact, I hate it, which makes no sense at all.
“You don’t seem very bothered by this,” I say.
His gaze lifts, locking onto mine. “Do you want me to be?”
I open my mouth. Then, close it again. Because I don’t know the answer, and I don’t trust my words.
He sets his cup down slowly. “I don’t regret it,” he says.
