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She frowned, still not drinking her scotch. “I meant about Baker.”
“My question still stands,” he said slowly.
“Being left alone in airports.”
“Ah.” He sat across from her, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees, dangling the glass from his left hand, and putting two and two together. “Let me guess. I’m the one who supposedly left you alone in one, after writing you a letter I never wrote?”
She stared at him, and he could see the confusion written on her face. “Yes. At La Guardia.”
“And why, exactly, were you at the airport?” he asked slowly.
“You know why.”
“I don’t.” He tightened his hold on his glass. “But I assume you’re about to tell me?”
“No. I’m not,” she said simply, staring at him without moving. “No matter what happened that day, it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like you.”
He almost pushed her for more information. If he knew why she was so angry, maybe he could figure out what had happened. But he sensed pushing her about it wasn’t going to help—it would only make her hate him more.
“Oh, you like me in the one way that matters.” He leaned forward even more, and her grip on her glass tightened. “I think that night in the hallway proved that.”
“That proved nothing.” She stared down at her glass. “Other than the fact that I was desperate to cross an item off my bucket list. Desperate enough to choose you, even.”
He tensed, the sting of her words leaving a mark. “And if not for that item, you never would have noticed me standing across from you in that room. Never would have come over to me and shared a drink, or a laugh, or even a kiss?”
She bit down on her lip. “You’ve offered me honesty, so I’ll do the same. Yes, I would have seen you, and yes, I probably would have thought you were handsome. But I never would have come over to you, let alone kissed you, or found the nerve to go in that hallway with you, without this list burning a metaphorical hole in my pocket.”
“Why not?” he asked quickly, his pulse rocketing when she stared at his mouth, as if she was remembering just how nice it had felt when they’d kissed. He’d give anything to show her how good it had felt, all over again, right now.
“Because it had been a lot longer than three years for me,” she said slowly, the tip of her nose going as
red as her cheeks. “Ten years, to be exact.”
He choked on his scotch.
Chapter Eight
She glared at him as he choked on his drink, knowing this was how he’d felt when she did the same thing to him. Only she probably didn’t manage to look regally hot while dying like he did. Sighing, she lifted her glass to her lips and drank. Her confession hadn’t come easily, but something about him vowing to never lie to her, as he stared at her with those bottomless blue eyes, had softened her.
But she already regretted her honesty.
“Guess you weren’t as worried about a love baby back then, huh?” she said drily.
He laughed and coughed. “Uh…no. I wasn’t. If my father knew what we did back then, though…” He left the rest unsaid.
“Well, yeah.” She pursed her lips. “No one’s touched me since you. Does that make you feel good about yourself?”
He looked pretty damn proud of it. “Are you trying to trap me into saying something that will get me in trouble?”
The thought had crossed her mind once or twice, over the years. “Not at the moment.”
“But later?”
She lifted a shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “I’m just giving you the same honesty you gave me. Trying to keep it real.”
“I wish you’d told me that earlier.” He cleared his throat. “I would have been more of a gentleman that night.”
“Against a door,” she said drily. “Riiight.”
