We stare at each other. There’s a barely veiled heat in his eyes, and the longer he holds my gaze, the harder it is to breathe. The pull between us makes my heart crash against my lungs, my blood a rush in my body. I’m acutely aware of the mere two feet of space that separates our knees.
He breaks first, looking down at his computer screen with a slight shake of his head. “Liv, I can’t—”
“I have an idea,” I blurt out.
“An idea?” he repeats, still not looking back up, as if he’s afraid of what will happen if he does.
“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to be ‘scar buddies’”—he winces, his nose squinching—“so maybe we can be ‘messy mates.’ Like the British term,” I rush on before he can misunderstand. “Because we’re both a mess, and in England, a ‘mate’canjust be someone you live by, not an actual friend or anything.”
The look he gives me is one of exasperation, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch. “Messy mates,” he repeats.
“Notfriends.Onlymessy mates. A whatevernonrelationship of any sort that this is.” I gesture between us.
Hunter shakes his head. “You’re very tenacious, you know that, right?”
“I’ve been told it’s my most life-saving quality.”
“Touché again.”
“Is that a yes?”
Hunter’s phone lights up, but I can’t see who’s texting him. I hope it’s work, not Colette. He stares down at the screen for several seconds, then finally says, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
I mask the sting of his continued rejection with a nonchalant rise and fall of my shoulders. “Can’t fault me for trying.”
“Olivia,” he says, squeezing his temples between his thumb and pointer finger.
But I cut him off. “No, it’s fine. I get it. I should rest and let you work.” I lie down and pull the blanket over me. My throatisburning, and now my body is beginning to ache. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to alarm him—or anyone else—prematurely. It’s probably from embarrassment; hopefully, a nap is all I need.
“You look flushed. Are you feeling okay?”
I open my eyes to see Hunter examining me, his forehead creased. Any heat I thought I saw in his eyes is gone, as if it never existed.
“I’m fine,” I insist sharply. “I’m going to try to nap, so keep it down and stop waking me up.”
“Sorry.” His reply is immediate.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying not to think about him tucking it around me earlier, and close my eyes.
But sleep doesn’t come right away, even with the inexplicably comforting sound of him typing away on his computerto help me drift off. Instead, for some reason, I think of Farmor’s insistence that I give him another chance—that I givelovea chance—and even going so far as to ask me to promise I would. What if that ends up being her last request, her dying wish? The thought makes me shiver, even beneath the thick, cozy blanket.
I tried, I think.I triedmorethan once.
But she doesn’t know that. If she doesn’t make it, one of the last things I said to her was a snide comment about not all of us getting swept off our feet in Hyde Park. It was valid though. I’ve heard about her grand romance my whole life: meeting the love of her life while she was a nanny in London. And what a perfect meet-cute it was—having his friend ask her out first, backing out, and my grandpa stepping in. Falling in love and marrying within amonth—then lasting well over forty years. You can’t dream up that kind of love story. And my parents’ was every bit as remarkable, though not quite as dramatic or fast. Growing up, I was surrounded by fairy tales coming true and happily-ever-afters.
Until all the love in the world couldn’t save either of them from tragedy.
Better to have a tiny prick of pain now than to be crushed later. His rejection hurts, but Hunter is actually doing both of us a favor.
My eyes open, but he’s focused on his computer.
“Hey,” I say, startling him.
Our eyes meet.
“I thought you were asleep,” he says.
“Not yet. I wanted to thank you.”
