Chapter 28
Rachel
ThisissomethingIknow: Evan Michaels might not seem to love a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to love.
It’s evident in the way he loves his sister.
I don’t know Evan’s story, but I want to. I want to know the pages of his heart more than any book he’s ever written for the world to read.
There’s something there. Something kind, gentle, and warm. He's starting to let me see it.
We’re on our way to Nashville now, fourth stop on this book tour, and there’s a tension between us that feels more like gravity than friction.
It’s in the way his shoulder brushes against me and neither of us flinch; instead we stay there a little longer than we should for being colleagues on a business trip. Or the way his silence no longer feels like a wall but a room I’ve been quietly invited into. The kind of hush that saysstay a whileinstead ofgo away.
And I want to stay a while, but our schedule is busy, and our plane seats are rows apart.
I keep catching him looking at me, and when I meet his eyes, his gaze lingers. It almost smolders, and I feel it all the way through my toes.
When our plane lands, I turn my phone off airplane mode, and it immediately buzzes with a text message.
Evan
I lost my company credit card. Think you could take me to dinner tonight?
I look up, spying his brown eyes staring at me from three rows ahead, between the gaps of the seats. I smile at him and shake my head.
Rachel
You lost something?
Evan
First time for everything.
I look at the text thread. Is this his backward way of asking me out, because honestly, it’s working. And it’s cute. Possibly even charming. Words I never thought I’d use to describe Evan Michaels.
Rachel
Meet you in the lobby at 7:00?
Evan
7:00 it is.
And it’s funny, really, because it feels like a secret when we see each other after exiting the plane. As if neither one of us wants to say anything out loud about it. As if we wrote the words on afolded-up piece of paper instead of our phones and we’re afraid one of us might tear it up and throw it away.
I drag my wonky luggage behind me, except I realize the wheel that usually throws a temper tantrum is rolling perfectly, and I wonder why I didn’t notice it before.
I pause my steps, looking at my suitcase that I know is mine. It’s worn pink exterior, the large black scratch down the side, and the dent where I once kicked it because it refused to roll.
Evan notices and walks back to me. “What’s wrong?”
“My wheel isn’t trying to go the wrong way,” I say.
He tilts his head. “And?”
“This suitcase has been broken for years. How did it magically start working again?” My hands are now on my hips, and I’m looking at the luggage like it’s a bad dog that just chewed through a pair of my underwear.
