He looks confused. ‘But you’ve been in love since we went out, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I scoff. ‘Loads of times.’
‘Well, if that’s true, you’d better hunt down all ofthoseguys and demand that they give you their pieces back, too.’ He takes a gulp of his beer and plonks the glass down on the table, looking a little too pleased with himself.
Is he right? Have I whittled my heart down to such a small chunk that I’m never going to be able to fall hook, line and sinker foranyone? Damn.
‘Your theory is flawed,’ he adds annoyingly.
‘No, no, no.’ I shake my head with renewed determination. ‘You were my first love. You’ve got the biggest piece. The most important piece. And I want it back.’
‘What if I don’t want to give it back?’ he asks.
I force my brow into a frown, while secretly thinking it’s adorable that he’s indulging this silliness. ‘Why would you want to keep it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe I like having it around. And anyway, if you want your piece back, then it’s only fair that you give me mine back, too.’
‘I have a piece of your heart?’ I ask with surprise, hoping no one is eavesdropping on our bonkers conversation.
‘Of course you do,’ he replies, barely refraining from adding, ‘Duh!’
I think about this, the alcohol muddling my brain. ‘I suppose we could do a straight swap,’ I mutter eventually.
His lips tilt up at the corners as he stares across the table at me with those very blue eyes of his. Momentarily I’m back in the past with him and butterflies are going berserk inside me.
‘Shall we continue this discussion over dinner?’ He slides his hand towards mine and touches the tips of my fingers with his. A shiver runs down my spine and I can almost feel fresh perforation marks being punched into my body’s most vital organ.
‘All right, then, if you insist,’ I reply with a smile.
If he wants to tear off another piece, I don’t think I’ll stop him.
Chapter 1
‘Hello again!’ my literary agent, Sara, exclaims as we air kiss each other’s cheeks. Her smile is a hundred watts brighter than the last time I saw her back in February. ‘Thank you for coming in.’ She directs me to a seat. ‘How’s it all going? I see you’ve topped ten thousand followers on Twitter!’
‘Yes, last week,’ I reply. ‘And the comments on the last post were off the scale.’
‘That was the Gabriel reunion?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, I loved that one!’
‘Good!’ I grin. ‘It cost me enough to get to Brazil.’
She laughs. ‘You sounded like you had a lucky escape with him. What a chauvinistic pig!Howmany children did he have again?’
‘Nine.’ I grimace. ‘I felt so sorry for his poor wife.’
‘Whoa, didshehave her work cut out for her! Were those kids really as badly behaved as they sounded?’
‘I’m sure they have their good days,’ I say benignly, wondering why I’m here.
It’s been three months since our last meeting when I pitched Sara an idea for a book, but it wasn’t as well received as I had hoped it would be.
‘Forgive me, Bridget,’ I remember her saying, as she eyed me shrewdly. ‘But, when you asked for a meeting about a book, I assumed you’d be pitching an idea about your experiences of navigating the globe, not your experiences of navigating men.’
It was a fair assumption. I was –am– a well-established travel writer.
