He was ending this point, one way or another.
Twenty-Five
That evening,Lucas was…off. Distracted. Fidgety in an unfamiliar way.
Maybe he’d simply had a long day, althoughallhis days seemed to be long days. Maybe his wrist was sore, although he denied it when Tess asked. Maybe he was tense because this was their next-to-last night together.
Or maybe he’d already decided to let her go and was struggling to tell her. He wouldn’t want to hurt her unnecessarily. She knew that for certain, if she knew nothing else.
For once, he didn’t cajole her into the shower with him after his lessons ended. Instead, he kissed her on her cheek, pointed out the cupcakes—vanilla bean, with passion fruit buttercream icing—on the counter, and excused himself.
How he’d procured them when he’d either been working or with her all day, she couldn’t say, but he definitely had his ways. The cupcakes looked delicious.
Her stomach was churning too much to eat one.
During dinner, they watched his friend’s tennis match from the previous day. Lucas kept his hands to himself, his eyes on the TV, and his mouth full of leftover meatballs. By the time they worked together in silence to clear the dishes, she was ready to call it.
He was over this, whateverthiswas. He was over her.
Blinking hard, she took one final sidelong look at him, a lengthy one. Admiring his looks and body, sure, but also his grace. The alert intelligence in his eyes, and the laugh lines at their corners. The scars indicating pain suffered and adversities overcome.
His dimples were nowhere in evidence, but she could pinpoint exactly where they’d appear at some point in the future, for someone who made him grin. Someone who wasn’t her.
One more look, as he dried his hands on a dishtowel. Another.
Then she braced herself and got ready to make things easier on both of them. Got ready to go. “Listen, Lucas, I should probably—”
“We need to talk,” he said at the same moment, still not meeting her eyes.
So he wasn’t going to do this the easy way. The cowardly way. She should have known.
“It’s okay.” She tried to smile. “I understand. You don’t need to say it.”
His forehead pinched. “What do you mean, you understand?” He finally looked directly at her, moving a step closer. “What exactly do you think I want to say?”
After a hitching breath, she steadied herself enough to speak. “All night, you’ve looked really uncomfortable, and I get it. You don’t want to hurt me, but it’s fine. You haven’t made me any promises, and I wouldn’t hold you to them if you had.”
He braced his fists on his hips, head cocked, the picture of befuddlement. Then his brow cleared, and confusion turned to exasperation. No, more than that. That was anger in the set of his jaw, pain in the way he flinched from her.
Fuck.Fuck.
She’d screwed up. Hurt him somehow, when she’d been trying to spare them both pain.
“You think—” He took a visible deep breath. Another. His lips silently moved, and she got the sense he might actually be counting. “Please tell me you didn’t just assume I was breaking up with you.”
“I…” She stared at the linoleum beneath her feet. “Yeah. I did.”
Her cheeks aflame, she wrapped her arms around her middle and waited for the hammer to fall, for his rightful anger to lash at her.
This time, she could actually hear him mumbling to himself. It was almost definitely numbers, but ones she didn’t recognize. Swedish numbers.
In her peripheral vision, she could see the moment his shoulders dropped. His chest deflated in a long exhalation. Then his hand appeared in her line of vision, strength compressed into tendon and bone and muscle, capable of incredible tenderness and power both.
She accepted the silent offer. Taking his hand, she let him lead her to the couch.
“Tess…” He settled them next to one another, hip to hip, as always. “I wish you would trust me.”
His voice was low. Weary in a way that made her chest ache.
