He’s in a white button-down shirt rolled up at the forearms, his skin tanned from the sun and the land and all the kilometres I didn’t get to travel with him.His hair is shorter than the last time I saw him.Neater.But his smile –his smile is the same.
My breath catches as if I’ve tripped and fallen straight into a memory.
He’s looking at me with an expression somewhere between a question and a prayer.Like he’s not sure I’ll keep walking towards him.Like he’s afraid this isn’t real.
For one terrifying, aching second, neither am I.
I blink.
He’s still standing there.
Real.
Alive.
Here.
Luke.
And the only thing louder than the thud of my heartbeat is the quietest thought rising through my chest like a flare:He sees me.
‘Jamie?’
I open my mouth and forget how words work.‘Hi,’ I manage, though it comes out all wrong – too soft, too hesitant – as if my vocal cords don’t know how we speak to people we used to love.
Still love?
His smile is lopsided and quiet and exactly the kind that ruins you.Not dazzling, not showy.Just … knowing.Tentative.As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to feel it.But his eyes – his eyes say everything.
They say,I missed you.I hoped you’d come.I haven’t stopped wondering what you’d look like walking back towards me.
The patio is dim and golden, all fairy lights and the low murmur of tipsy chats and date-night firsts.But the only thing I hear is the drumbeat of my pulse in my ears.
He gestures to the empty seat at his table.‘You look like you could use a drink.’
I let out a laugh – nervous, surprised, shaky.‘Only if it’s strong.’
He smiles like he wants to reach across the table but doesn’t.‘What’s your poison?’
‘Lychee martini of course.’
Jodie takes our order while he pulls out the chair for me.We sit.
And, somehow, I’m sitting across from the person I thought I’d never see again.Like a deleted scene from a life I was supposed to have.
Luke leans back, draping an arm casually over the back of his chair as if he didn’t shatter the air between us by existing.‘So,’ he says, cocking his head.‘What do you do for a living, Miss Hayes?’
I arch a brow.‘Oh, we’re doing this?’
He gives a slow, knowing nod.‘We’re doing this.’
‘I write ad copy about toothpaste.’
He whistles, low.‘Sounds riveting.’
‘It is,’ I say dryly.‘You’d be amazed how many ways there are to describe fluoride without using the word slimy.’
‘Sexy.’
