Maybe this wasn’t my brightest idea after—
“I had a feeling you might show up.”
His tone was light and easy, a sharp contrast to the heat I felt in his stare. He gestured toward the empty stool beside him.
“Looks like I won’t be needing that table after all, Tyra.”
She smiled knowingly. I waited until she darted back to her post before taking a seat. Our knees brushed and the touch sent a jolt of electricity up my spine.
“I guess I get to buy you that drink after all.”
We sat there side by side, silently sizing each other up for a moment. Like me, he had changed out of his previous shirt, opting instead for a short-sleeved button-down that showed off his sinewy forearms. The gold rings adorning his fingers matched the layered necklaces draped around his neck.
The only thing missing was a pair of silver handcuffs. Then again, he might have something to say about mixing metals.
“Is that your friend?” I pointed toward the queen with the mic.
He nodded. “Yup, Beau and I go all the way back to freshman year at University of Washington.”
“Is he a journalist, too?”
“Civil rights attorney.” His face lit up as he discussed his friend. It was the first genuine smile I had seen from him all day. “A total shark.”
“And a total fox, too.” Beau had legs for days. “Together, you could take over the world.”
“One of these days, we might.”
“Well, before you get to world domination . . .”
I leaned into him as if I were sharing a secret. Which, I guessed I was. Sort of. Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to be closer to him. Who could blame me? The guy smelled like citrus, spice, and everything nice.
“I wanted to apologize.”
He cocked his head to one side. “For what?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and gritted my teeth. It was no secret; apologies had never been my strongest suit. Just ask any of my exes. And it wasn’t because of some misplaced pride or arrogance—that was immature, teenage boy shit—but rather because apologies meant next to nothing in my family. They were empty words, a way for my mom or dad to pacify the other without any level of introspection. Somebody fucked up, they said sorry, and that was the end of it.
Except it wasn’t.
It wasn’t until my first relationship in junior high that I’d realized I had never really understood what an apology was for. Before then, I had never really felt any genuine remorse or sadness, just deep resentment that burned my chest and left a sour taste in my mouth.
That wasn’t something that could be fixed overnight, but ten years and two therapists later and I was more open and communicative than ever before. Which was how I knew I owed Brock an apology, even if he didn’t think he deserved one.
“I didn’t like how we left things earlier. I’m not sure if it was the food or my blatant flirting or the mention of your book—” His wince was all the answer I needed. “Or maybe some combination of all three, but I know I made you uncomfortable, and that’s not okay.”
Brock looked like he wanted to argue with me, but I wasn’t about to give him a chance. Instead, I held up a hand to cut him off and pressed on, hoping that my voice wouldn’t betray me.
“I might be a sarcastic asshole, but that’s no excuse, so I hope you can accept my apology.”
For a long, agonizing minute, neither of us spoke. Brock sat there, watching me with unreadable eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck, and then somebody behind us shouted, “Bingo!”
Finally, just when I thought my heart might burst out of my chest, Brock broke the silence. “Apology accepted.”
“Good.”
“On one condition.”
I arched a brow when he echoed my words from earlier. “Name it.”
