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“We both are.”
Finally, a reaction. Bee’s gaze meets mine, and there’s a flash of something sharp—a literal blink and I’d have missed it—before she ducks her head. The kitchen counter stands between us, but I can’t tell who it’s meant to be protecting.
“Thanks,” she says. “It’s a little weird waking up here, but I’m not mad to be back.”
Back, not home.
I wonder what she’s left behind in Chance. Or who. Getting the details out of Aiden has been impossible, because Bee’s news is always the same. Things are fine, nothing special to report.
If she’s heartbroken, it doesn’t show.
There is something different about her, though. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but it’s there.
One thing’s for sure: she’s beautiful. The softness of her features has sharpened into something glorious. Electric. There’s still a tenderness to it, the curve of her cheeks, the pillow of her lips, the freckles that dance up her arms. But there’s also a spark, a brightness behind her brown eyes. She’s a fighter, no doubt about it.
Bee might be content to fade into the background, but now that I’m really looking, I can’t stop. Can’t stop wanting, either, but that’s a problem I can deal with later.
It’s while I’m shoving these thoughts away that Bee sets a coffee in front of me, black and steaming. It’s a promotional mug from the bar where Aiden and I met a decade ago, back when I was still fucking around with no thought or care for the future.
“How is writing treating you? Still hitting bestseller lists?” I ask.
“It’s fine. Same old, same old, you know?”
Yep, still the same Bee.
It’s frustrating. Sometimes all I want to do is crack her open, discover the treasure underneath. But it’s comforting to know that this new Bee is as elusive as ever.
She lets out a breath, toying with her mug. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” I’m eager for any part of her I can get.
Bee finally takes a seat beside me, and I keep my eyes firmly on my mug and not on her thighs. She twists her mouth as though fighting with the question itself.
The wait continues.
“Actually, never mind.”
“Bee.” My hand twitches on my thigh, but I stop myself from reaching for her. “Ask me.”
“Um, when you started dancing, were you ever worried about what people would say?”
Huh. Not what I was expecting. And from the way she’s chewing on her lip, I’m pretty damn sure she’s not asking the question she really wants the answer to.
“I didn’t care what anyone said about stripping except my mom, and she came around.”
“You weren’t scared of having to explain yourself?”
I chuckle. “I was a cocky twenty-one-year-old with a six-pack. Nothing scared me.” Now I’m thirty-six, and I can name at least one thing I’m afraid of…
We settle into another silence. Something’s going on with her, and it’s pulling at the threads of my composure.
It would be easier if I knew how to talk to her.
“Hey—”
“Your hair is longer,” Bee says, cutting me off.
“Yours got shorter.” It brushes her shoulders now.
