Page 16 of All The Ways to Miss You

“What?” My heels lift and my toes tense. I’ll admit I’ve thought of him, but it’s one thing for me to play with a fantasy of us together in my mind, and another for him to believe I would pursue him.

“I’m joking.” He pours his own glass.

“Right.”

I catch my leg bouncing beneath the table and press my hands on my thigh to stop it. Maybe I’m not as adventurous as I hoped I could be, because being here is beginning to look painfully stupid. Needing all the help I can muster, I chug the wine, emptying it to the last drop, then return the glass to the table.

Evan shoots me a curious glance before refilling it. “Aren’t you dating what’s-his-name from the office?”

At his question, I’m confused. Is this another joke? Or does he really think I have a boyfriend?

That’s when it dawns on me. Evan believes I’m dating Lou. Lou, who meets me here every morning to walk to me to work. Lou, who kisses me on the cheek when we see each other, and Lou, who is anything but into the ladies.

“You mean Lou?” I ask.

Evan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure, that guy.”

“We broke up,” I joke, though Evan won’t get how impossible that would be. “About eight days ago.” Now I’m outright lying, and I have no idea why. This is the exact number of days Lou has been on vacation in London.

Evan’s shoveling food into his mouth, but I could swear I hear him mumble, “Good.”

My pasta filled fork pauses in midair. “What’s that?”

He swallows, takes a sip of wine, and says, “Sorry to hear that.”

My gaze drops to my food. Is he jealous of Lou? A corner of my mouth tugs upward as I consider his reaction. I lean closer to my plate and take another bite of pasta.

Evan and I chat for hours. He’s the landlord and handles maintenance for our building, but he’s also a private trainer. That explains his healthy body, but it automatically makes me dream about what’s beneath his shirt—something else I shouldn’t be doing. I press my thighs together and shift in my seat before continuing my line of questioning.

Based on Aggie’s conquests, she’s concluded that six-pack abs are a myth perpetuated by the media, movies, and romance books. She insists that every guy she’s ever dated is perfect exactly as they are, though she’s never encountered anyone too toned or tight.

If I were dating, I would be thrilled with that. If I were dating, I’d base boyfriends on personality and good deeds in the hopes of finding a long-term partner. But if, and I mean if, I were looking for a hookup and wanted to play my “one-night stand, practically a virgin, never been kissed after I lost my memories” V-card on someone, I admit, it might be fun to see abs like Evan’s up close, just once.

When I tell Evan the story of how Aggie and I met at Mr. Moon’s, he smiles brightly. His amusement spreads from his full lips to his luminous coppery eyes, making them flicker like shiny pennies. Joy permeates his laughter with a richness that yanks the corner of my own lips, lifting them into an answering smirk.

I’d like to imagine his smile is special, one that’s all for me. Under the influence of alcohol and admiring him from across the table, I’ve concluded that Evan might fit the bill . . . if I were ever to choose a hookup. But I won’t, so I pour another glass of wine.

It’s two in the morning when we finally clear the table. Standing in the kitchen side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we make an assembly line. I wash the dishes, hand them over, and he dries them with a kitchen towel.

“So, what’s it like working for my brother? Is he as much of a turd as he is to me?” Evan places a dish in the cabinet with a clank.

A burst of laughter escapes me. “Turd isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe him. More like brilliant.” I shove my hands into the sink of soapy water and scrub the sauce stuck to a plate.

Linden rarely talks about Evan, and vice versa. There’s some family drama between them that I’m not privy to. Though the memory is foggy, I remember hearing a very serious fight between them. I was outside Evan’s apartment. Their angry shouts were muffled, but the walls of the old building echoed with what sounded like a brawl.

“You have to say that because he’s your boss.”

“I have to say that because I like my job and I want to keep it.” I squirt blue soap into the sink.

“I hear you’re good at it.”

“You hear?” I turn to scrutinize him and hand him a new plate to dry. When our gaze connects and I’m about to ask him if he’s been checking up on me, the wet plate slips from my grasp. He scrambles to grab it but misses. It drops to the wood floor with a crash, shattering into a million shards.

I leap back to save my feet for the second time tonight, but when I glance down, there’s a long scrape above my ankle. At the sight of blood trickling to my foot, Evan sweeps me into his brawny chest and carries me to the dining room, stepping over the broken china like a fire-walker.

With my arms draped around his neck, I’m suddenly hyperaware of three things—his intoxicating rainy scent, his heated chest singeing every point of contact, and the thin layers of my silk bathrobe and his cotton shirt are the only things separating us.

He settles me on a chair. As soon as he releases me, I ache for him to return. He grabs a paper towel from the island, drops to one knee, and wraps my ankle to stop the bleeding. I shiver with an electric chill.