Her shoulders slump, and it’s clear by her expression that the moment has passed. I step back, mentally cursing technology.
Angelina
Tyler: I made a mistake.
Tyler: Let me explain.
Griffin hops onto the tailgate, resting his back beside the wheel well. He digs into the picnic basket and pulls out several steaming containers of food. “Tyler again?”
“Yep.” I pop the P for emphasis, lifting the lid of a large container to divert my attention anywhere but on the man sitting across from me.
He almost kissed me. What’s worse is I wanted him to. I was going to let it happen… again. God. What is wrong with me? I just got out of a three-year relationship, and I hopped into bed with the first man who looked at me after that—literally. Now we’re having a tailgate picnic that looks and feels an awful lot like a date. There’s rebounding, and then there’s…whatever the fuck this is.
Griffin rests his elbow on his knee and slips a roasted potato into his mouth. “Want me to tell him to fuck off?”
I reach for one of the mini ham-and-cheese sliders. “I’m a big girl. I can handle him.”
“Never doubted that for a second.” He bites into his slider, and I watch the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
I really need to stop ogling this man.
We eat in companionable silence with only the distant sounds of the crickets chirping and the wind rustling through the leaves. It’s nice. Peaceful. I’ve never spent much time out here outside of work, but a girl could get used to this.
I shouldn’t get used to this.
He riffles through the basket and pulls out a smaller container. It has two of Olivia’s signature cupcakes inside. “Dessert?”
“The delivery driver was Olivia?”
“Only the best for my wife.”
Ignoring the flirtation, I swipe my finger throughthe frosting and bring it to my mouth. When the dark chocolate hits my tongue, my eyes roll back, and a low moan slips free.
Griffin’s eyes zero in on my lips, and everything around us stills. After a long silence, he clears his throat and looks away. “I have to ask you something.”
I tilt my head to the side, peeling off the cupcake liner.
“Why did you give me the wrong number five years ago?”
My brow furrows as I consider the question. I must be tired because the words aren’t making any sense. “What?”
He rubs at his jaw. “The night we got together, you put your number in my phone.”
“I remember.” I finish the last of my cupcake as I wait for him to continue.
I won’t be the one to point out how that weekend ended. Lord knows I’ve done everything I can to forget it.
“Except it wasn’t actually your number, was it?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask defensively.
The discomfort I’d learned to live with begins to ache and expand.
His forehead creases. “I texted you that morning after I left. I wanted to solidify our plans for you to visit, but it didn’t go through.”
Those memories loom over me like a ghost from a former life—one I often wished I could forget. I never understood how he could walk away after what we shared, with our plans for the future all but set. I chalked it up to foolish hopes and wild imaginings. Now he’s offering up an explanation that should make sense, but the words ring hollow and lifeless.
I shift positions, dangling my legs over the tailgate. “You texted me?”
