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She shrugs and pushes off the island, rounding it so she can head back to the party. “I feel better, truly, now that you know the whole truth. All that pretense was getting to be too difficult to manage. So what? I used to have a crush on you and some immature part of me wanted you to come back and see me as this older sophisticated woman, poised and confident.” She shrugs. “I’m not. In a lot of ways, I’m still—”
My hand shoots out to catch her as she brushes by me. Her arm feels so delicate underneath her sweater, and I immediately loosen my grip.
“Shouldn’t I get a moment to speak now? To tell you how I see things?”
She smiles and it feels as intimate as a kiss. “I am tempted to stay and listen. I wonder if you could come up with anything more rousing than you did for Laurie, but Cal is waving us into the dining room. I think we’re holding everyone up.”
She’s right, of course. We’ve been in here for too long.
I have no choice but to let her go. The chefs are plating the first course. Guests are gathering in the dining room, looking for their names on the place cards. Cal loves playing the host. No sitting next to someone you know well—what would be the fun in that? We’re meant to mix and mingle, force ourselves out of our comfort zones. Whitney is assigned to a seat a football field away from me. Ryan sits across from her. Ava’s at the place of honor on Cal’s right. I’m positioned on her other side, near Carrie and Thomas.
Somehow, I’ve found myself in a dead zone.
Cal and Ava talk animatedly. Carrie and Thomas keep their heads bent together half the evening. I’m left to my own devices, namely mulling over everything Whitney just unpacked in the kitchen.
She’s been all over the board since my arrival from London. She wavers between holding me at arm’s length and clutching me in close, splaying the truth out between us like she’s handing me pages ripped straight from her diary. Except, I’m not sure if it’s all the pages. Sure, she’s trying hard to seem open and honest, but it feels more like she’s feeding me fluff in the hopes that it will fill me up. It won’t.
In fact, I’m more desperate than ever to get the whole truth from her. I only need to pay attention to know there’s more to the story. Just like Pollock, subtlety isn’t in Whitney’s wheelhouse. Her expressions, her feelings, her real truths are splashed across her skin like paint across a canvas.
I feel her eyes on me half a dozen times throughout the night. I know if I glance over, I’ll catch her. Her cheeks will turn that rosy shade of red that drives me mad. So I don’t look. I ignore her like I’m actually taking a hint and giving her space.
In reality, I’m compiling a list of questions I want answers to. I want to know when she stopped having feelings for me. I want to know why every time I make contact with her skin, her lips part as if she’s expecting a kiss. She did it earlier when I caught her as she tripped in her gown, and she did it a moment ago in the kitchen. I want to know how she could possibly find me intimidating.
I don’t buy it.
Eight years ago? Maybe. She was meek. She would have sat quietly at this table, too afraid to speak up around so many of her colleagues. Now, she enchants us all. She’s the light we’re drawn to.
Me most of all.Chapter TenWhitneyHonesty should come with a sigh of relief. I should feel like I just threw a boulder off my shoulders. Everything I said in the kitchen was the truth, but now instead of feeling weightless, I feel more tethered to Derek than ever before. I can’t go five minutes without glancing back over in his direction. I wish I’d stayed to listen to him before walking out of the kitchen. In truth, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I can’t believe how much I revealed.
Around him, I almost can’t help myself.
It’s his eyes. They’re the truest dark brown, a shade that doesn’t parade around with pomp and circumstance. There’s a quiet tug in their depths. Tell me your secrets and I’ll never tell a soul, they promise. And I listen. I down a truth serum each time our gazes meet.
I want you to like me.
I dressed up just for you.
I wish I wasn’t the same silly girl you used to know, but I am.
I think I’m as in love with you now as I was back then and how am I going to survive?
Tell me, brown eyes—how?
