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Derek stays silent, surveying me with warm brown eyes.
“Cal gave me your address,” I explain, biting my tongue before I add, Blame him!
Thomas walks back to the table and tugs out a chair. “Join us?”
The invitation is barely uttered before Derek stands and rounds the table toward me.
“I’m assuming you’d like a word?” he asks, finally speaking as he walks over and blocks my view of the table.
One of them groans. “Aw c’mon! Can’t we all hear what she has to say? If you leave, we’re just going to get up and listen at the door anyway.”
They all laugh, but Derek turns me around and guides me down a hallway with a hand wrapped around my bicep. We step into a room. He closes the door behind us and stands there, waiting for me to say something.
I would, but my attention is focused elsewhere. Namely, the king-sized bed looming beside us.
“Is this your bedroom?” I nearly gulp.
“I didn’t think you’d want to speak in front of the guys.”
Sure, but he could have just shoved me into a hall closet. This is so much better. Access to his bedroom is like being given free rein of his private life. Sort of. The room is sparse. Don’t get me wrong, the furniture and bedding look like the very best money can buy. I want to rub my face on those sheets and feel how much mine are so desperately lacking. There’s art on the walls, but it’s the kind you’d find in a hotel: abstract sailboats, vague landscapes. No personal items catch my eye except for the paperback on the side table and a glass of water that was probably left there the night before.
“You look like you’re disappointed,” he says.
I shrug. “I was kind of hoping for more personal affects, something to blackmail you with. A teddy bear partially hidden under your pillow, that sort of thing.”
He chuckles and the sound swells inside of me, filling me with courage.
I turn, clasp my hands behind my back, and say simply, “I’m here because I’d like us to be friends.”
His brow quirks. Clearly, that’s not what he thought I came here to say.
“We’ve had a tumultuous few weeks. I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it has. I think about you a lot—” There’s a shift in his gaze, a familiar yearning that makes my gut clench. Blood rushes to my cheeks as I clear my throat. “Our predicament, I mean. I think about our predicament a lot. In any other circumstance, I’d say it’d be best to give each other space, but we can’t do that. In fact, we’re only going to be spending more time together come Friday when rehearsals start, so it seems like we might as well make the best of the situation.”
“So you want to be friends?”
“Yes, and I want you to forgive me for the way I’ve behaved these last few weeks. In return, I promise to forgive you for everything that happened eight years ago.”
“A clean slate.”
I smile. “Exactly.”
He nods and his gaze flits down my body, just for a moment, before he glances out the window. “You’re right. We’ll be around each other a lot over the next few weeks…”
I tip my head, trying to meet his eyes. I get the sense that he might not accept my offer, so I amend my terms. “Maybe being friends is too much? How about just acquaintances? If I pass you in the hall, I promise to wave. How about that?”
When his gaze snaps back to me, my heart thump-thumps in my chest.
“On one condition.”Chapter ThirteenDerekHer gaze widens in fear of what my condition will be. I can’t resist a smirk. She’s so easy to ruffle, at times I can’t help myself. Like a fox toying with a hare, here I am, blocking her way out of my bedroom in an effort to draw a morsel of truth out of her. I’m aware it’s bad form. Modern society is frowning down on me and yet, here I stand, a caveman with a wounded ego.
I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Whitney came to my apartment. She’s standing in my bedroom. This conversation could have waited until the morning. She could have scheduled a meeting with Heather so we could discuss this during business hours in an office with a sturdy desk separating us, ensuring we keep our hands to ourselves.
“What’s your condition?” she asks, voice breathy.
My condition is simple: I want to know if she still has feelings for me.
The question is poised on my tongue before I catch myself.
What does it matter if she still has feelings for me? Feelings mean nothing if she doesn’t plan to act on them.
I reroute.
“I want you to hold up your end of the bargain. I really want that clean slate you promised.”
