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Rex twists to me as Arnold’s sympathetic eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror. These men aren’t paid for judgments. Still, even in their statuesque presence, they know me better than most.
“You’ve always been a fighter, Cee,” Rex says with a glint of pride that lands heavy on my chest. “Makes our job fucking difficult sometimes, but it’s what makes you, you.”
“This is different,” I argue, feeling squeezed from every angle. Ready to combust.
“Seems like if you were going to pick a time to fight, it’d be when the stakes were the highest,” Keith counters, wrapping his arm around my shoulders for a brief hug. “Your dreams are worth it too.”
I don’t respond. I close my stinging eyes, attempting to expunge every unbidden point of view from my head and meditate on a visual of the evening—making the best of the godawful mess my life has become.
It seems like only seconds have passed when I’m informed of our arrival. Rex insisted upon the same location as the date with Dustin Barclay because they had already scouted it. Scott was fine with that and booked a room in the attached hotel, so there isn’t much new to consider. Only the man I’ll be dining with.
My team guides me inside, and Scott is waiting at the same booth where I ate last time. I ignore the swirl of emotions that brews. He’s as dreamy as his pictures. Standing to greet me, he buttons his suit jacket. Sparkling blue eyes latch on to me as his large hand slips into mine. He’s eloquent, well bred, dapper, and charming. He says all the right things in his deep voice, regards me in all the right ways.
But I feel nothing. No spark. No tingle. No heat. No prickle licking up my spine when our skin grazes against one another.
He’ll be numbness, adorned in a gorgeous package.
We converse with ease, witty banter, and a repartee that could certainly stave off boredom. That’s something. Maybe I’ll feel an ember in time. Like those arranged marriages where they meet at the wedding and fall in love years later. It’s not a terrible fate. The poor guy is practically perfect—only lacking one quality.
He’s not Liam.
The room starts to pulsate with the racket of chatter and clanking dishes, much like it did the last time I was here, except then, even in my dismay, I had Liam to lean on. He was unhinged, out of line, jealous. But mine.
Mine.
My phone dings inside my purse, but I ignore it because Scott is finishing a story that I should be engrossed in. It goes off again.
“You know what?” he says with his gleaming pearly whites. “Get that, or it will drive us both mad with distraction. I have an email to address anyway.”
My mother would be aghast at the sight of us both on our phones during dinner. But the plates have been cleared, and we’re only drinking now, so I squash the insecurity over ill manners and check the message. It’s an encrypted link from Liam, requiring me to go through a few quick steps in order to finally see it.
Liam: I have a confession. Want to hear it?
That makes me smile more than it should. I glance up to see Scott is indeed busy, so I respond.
Me: On a date right now, but sure.
Liam: I thought about you long before the poolside night. Long before our barnyard kiss.
My heart thrashes like a pinball. Ribs. Sternum. Throat. Chest. Stomach.
Me: Is that so?
Liam: Yes. Even before last July and maybe once or twice before Paris when you accused me of faking my own death.
Me: Not my finest moment, I admit.
Liam: You looked fine as hell, but your mouth … I digress.
I bite back a giggle, not wanting to call Scott away from his work.
Me: Clearly. Your point?
Liam: It always infuriated me that I thought about you, but you never seemed to be thinking about me.
That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve thought about him since Ivy painted him. He was so beautiful. And dead. But then he wasn’t.
Always keep them guessing.
