Page 118 of Flirting with 40

Her voice. That voice. It has relief flickering through me.

“Hey. How are you?”

“Good. Terrible.” She laughs, and I love the nervous edge to it because, for some reason, I can relate to the sound of it.

“Well, those two things shouldn’t be mutually exclusive so should we break each one down?” I ask.

“Why do you do that? Why do you try to make me feel at ease when I’m the one who should be apologizing to you?”

I chuckle. “Come again?”

“There’s something about you, Slade, that immediately makes a bad situation feel so much better. It’s maddening.”

“I’d think it’s a good thing,” I say.

“It’s maddening only because I wish I could do the same. But I’m stalling. I’m focusing on that instead of why I called.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“See?” She laughs, and it’s a little lighter this time. “There you go again, trying to put things at ease when I’m the one who needs to be doing that.”

She’s adorable when she’s flustered. I know I can’t see her through the line, but damn it, she’s adorable.

And I miss her.

“Then by all means, Ms. Foxx, the floor is yours.”

Silence blankets the line followed by an audible inhale. “I screwed up. It’s hard for me to say that, but I screwed up, and I made all kinds of excuses to myself why my screw up was justified, but in the end, they were all stupid. I’m sorry.”

That’s three screwed’s.

I smile. It’s the most honest smile I’ve had in the last ten days because it reminds me of the night we met—her diatribe and what happened afterward.

And I know this—whatever this is—is going to be okay.

“We all screw up.”

“Yes, but I pushed you out. You called to cancel, and I understand why, but in my head, I made it out to be more than it was and then, of course, I felt like an idiot when you told me the real reason. I was too embarrassed to admit I was being selfish and . . . I’ll stop myself now.”

“Please. Continue.” I settle back into my couch. “I like hearing you talk.”

“Slade.”

Christ. Her voice. My name.

“I apologize that I didn’t give you more. I was flustered and left my phone in my locker. You deserved an explanation.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything. It’s my fault. Totally my fault. I’m supposed to be the new Blakely, but when I heard a woman laugh in the background, I immediately—”

“I’m not Paul. Far fucking from it.” And the truth comes out. How did I not see that before? She thought I was making excuses, which I can understand given her history. Understandably she’s insecure and maybe drew the conclusion that I had moved on. Doesn’t she get I don’t think I could move on? Hell, I’m having a hard enough time just trying to get through an hour without looking at my phone hoping she’ll call.

“I know you aren’t.”

“And the lady who laughed was the florist who I was buying flowers for you from.”

“Oh.” There’s that sound I love that she makes. “I don’t want flowers—I mean, I like them, but I don’t need flowers.”

“Unless they are peonies?”