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Her brow furrows. “Of course not.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing?”
Her fingers brush my thigh. It’s a quick thing. Then it’s not. She rests her entire hand on my thigh. “Ryan, I…”
I freeze.
“I miss you.” Her eyelids press together. She leans in. She leans close enough to kiss me.
I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Pull her hand back.
She jumps back. “Oh. I’m sorry.” Hurt flares in her expression. “That was… I… I don’t know.”
Bullshit.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
Her cheeks flush. It’s not a blush of desire. It’s embarrassment. “Don’t tell Frank.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Frank.”
“But—”
“You do this a lot?”
“No. Never.”
I believe her. Somehow, I can tell she’s being honest. She learned her lesson destroying me. Decided not to do it again.
Maybe I should be bitter.
But I’m not.
“You’re scared. You’re panicking. But I’m not gonna help you run away from your fiancé,” I say. “If that’s what you want, find someone else.”
“I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“No. What if I’m wrong? What if he isn’t enough? If I’m not enough?”
“How do you feel now, when you think about him?”
“Happy.”
“When you think about celebrating your ten-year anniversary?”
Her lips curl into a smile.
“Seeing kids in boat shoes and Dockers playing soccer on the weekends.”
“They’re playing soccer in their boat shoes?”
“Yeah. They want to dress like daddy.”
She laughs. “The Dockers too?”
