“It’ll stay between us,” I add. Maybe she needs someone to confide in who’s not a friend, not a family member—just some dude she works with occasionally.
Sometimes it’s easier with people who don’t know us, who haven’t seen all our flaws, who aren’t aware of all our mistakes.
We roll along a busy block where festive music plays from a tapas bar. When she shifts her gaze to me, her brown eyes are wide, swimming with remorse. “None of it had to happen this way tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
She closes her eyes and covers her mouth like she’s warring with herself to keep the rest locked up tight. After a few seconds of struggle, she drops her hand and blurts out: “I thought he was going to propose to me. Last night I found a little jewelry box in his sweatshirt. I figured it would be during our date, since our one-year anniversary is coming up, and the game was important. I hustled to arrange things at the arena. A big, fun mood. A declaration. On the Jumbotron, so everyone could see. I had a videographer lined up. I ordered the best champagne. I planned the elaborate, romantic moment I’d always imagined, and it went completely wrong. And it’s all my fault.”
There’s so much to unpack in that confession, but we’ve reached her place. I slide into a spot out front, turn off the car, then shift in the seat to face her. “Nothing that happened tonight was your fault.”
Remy just stares ahead through the windshield into the dark city night.
I set a hand on her knee, squeezing. I shouldn’t, but Idon’t always listen to good sense. “He could have stopped once he knew you were broadcasting. And he fucking knew. You don’t hear your voice reverberate andnotknow.” Her brow furrows, like she’s chewing on that thought, and after a moment, I add another. “You set it up, but you acted on a big fucking clue, and you were hoping for something. But he didn’t stop when he should have, and that’s just wrong. Fuck him. That guy is just a dick.”
At last, she turns to face me, as a soft smile shifts her lips. “Thanks, Lake.”
I let go of her knee. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
It’s not a question. I get out of the car, walk around to her side, and swing open the door. Remy pops up, still holding the champagne bottle, with her hat and a friendship bracelet hanging around its neck.
I want to grab that bracelet, sneak over to Jameson’s stupid beer stand, and shove it up one of the taps, far enough to fuck up his business. For now, I walk Remy toward the front door of an awfully nice Scandinavian minimalist-style place. She nods to the side of the townhome, though, and I follow her to a little porch leading to a guest house.
When she reaches the stoop, she looks up at me. “Thank you again. I really did need that. And I owe you.”
She owes me nothing, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s spotting opportunities. “Promise me something, then.”
She tilts her head, her pretty eyes brimming with hopeful curiosity. “That I’ll have a fantastic time hanging out with my plants while I avoid the world the next few days?”
“That. But also this. Promise me you’re not going to take him up on that offer to make a dating profile.”
“Are you offering to help me set one up?”
You’re looking at your profile match, sweetheart.That’s what I want to say, but I’m no good at romance. Instead I say, “When you’re ready to set up your profile, call me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your phone will ring in a couple of years.”
This makes me unreasonably happy. I tuck my finger under her chin and say, “Chin up, Remy.”
“Chin up,” she repeats, like it’s the night’s mantra.
I let go of her. As I lower my arm, I rub my thumb across the pad of my finger where I touched her. It’s…sparking.
Hell, I am too.
She goes to tap a code on a keypad but stops after one button, then spins back, holding up and waggling the bottle. “Do you want this? I don’t think I’m going to drink it—not tonight, at least.”
“Save it. Crack it open when you’re officially over that jackass who never deserved you.”
“Deal.” She pauses, brow knit, then her lips curve with some amusement. “How did you get a dealanda promise out of me?”
I flash a confident grin. “I’m just that good.”
“Evidently.”
As I walk away, I catch a widening smile, which stays with me down the steps and back to my car. The image tags along as I drive through the fog of late-night San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge, and through the hills of Sausalito, until I reach my quiet home in Cozy Valley, away from all the madness of the city and all the mistakes I made there once upon a time.
* * *
