“Not everyone gets to have a glamorous job in the city,” I say, holding out a hand.
He hands me the smoke, pinching it between thumb and finger. My skin brushes his, and fuck, it’s still there. That tingling, shivery ripple that rolls over my entire body at the slightest contact.
I guess some things haven’t changed.
“That’s why I’m up here,” he says. “Work. Boring shit. What about you? What do you do?”
“I book gigs and events for nightclubs.”
“That… Does not sound like a job for a sober person.”
I shrug and hand back the smoke. “It has its perks.”
“I bet,” he says. “Sounds exciting.”
“It can be,” I say, but what I’m thinking is,thisis fucking exciting.
I’m doing better than him, and he can finally see it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamed of this moment a thousand times, if it hadn’t motivated me every single time. Thinking about him eating his words, the things he used to say to me, calling me a failure or a fuckup.
Look at me now, asshole.
I have a great job, I have my own place in the most exciting city in the world, I’m healthy.
The only thing missing is—no.
I won’t think like that, look for the bad. There’s too much good to spend time looking for what’s lacking.
“I take it this isn’t your first time here?” Colt asks, the corner of his mouth twitching into an ironic smile as he nods down at the blanket. He passes me the cigarette again.
This time, I’m careful not to touch him. “Not quite.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “Look at that view. Damn.”
I take a drag, letting the familiar smoke fill my lungs with comfort.
“Do you bring all your dates up here?” he asks.
I blow out a thin stream of smoke into the icy air. “Is this a date?”
“I just meant, it would be a good place to bring a date,” he says. “Not that this is a date.”
“Sure,” I say, handing the cigarette back. “And to answer your question, no. I’ve never brought a date here. I’ve never actually brought anyone here.”
His eyes meet mine, and his fingers close over mine, more than an accidental brush. He cups the side of my hand for a beat,then slowly extracts the cigarette. His eyes stay on mine as he places it between his lips and sucks, that stud beneath sparkling like a star. He keeps on looking while he smiles and lets the smoke drift from the corners of his mouth.
Holy shit. Is Colt Darling flirting with me?
“Well, now you went and made me feel special,” he says, passing again.
“As if you ever needed me to tell you that.”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” he says, lifting one shoulder in the barest shrug. “You did spend four years of high school telling me I was a piece of shit.”
“And you never believed it for a second.”
“No,” he says, crossing his arms and hunching against the slight wind. “But I might have believed you thought it.”
“I didn’t,” I say quietly. “I never meant any of it.”
