“I suppose.” She swirls her glass around, the ice clinking merrily. “Do you miss being in a relationship?”
“With you? Yes.” I meet her gaze head on. “Do you miss being in a relationship with me?”
She downs the rest of the whiskey in her glass without a word.
I drink too, in solidarity, before standing up and topping us both off. I purse my lips together so I don’t let my excitement show, because if the answer was no, she would have just said so.
She misses me.
It’s something, at least.
Jess moves us back to safer topics, her next couple of questions lightly inquiring about my process and if I have any ideas for what to work on next. I return the favor. The questions seem surface level and easy, but I love the way she lights up when she’s talking about her writing, when she talks about meeting readers and mentoring newer authors.
We both continue to sip from our drinks, even though we’re answering each question the other poses. The whiskey and the wine and sitting across from Jess all melt together in my chest, warming me from the inside out. I could go traipsing through the blizzard outside right now and probably not feel a thing.
Until Jess pivots back into dangerous territory, sending an uncomfortable chill through me. “Do you think you’ll ever write a book with a happy ending?”
I’m tempted to drink and stave off the question. It’s one that’s posed to me fairly often, though not as much now as it was in the beginning of my career. My brand is well established at this point, and I think a lot of my fans would probably be disappointed with a happy ending in a NickMatthews book. But it was never what I set out to write, and I know this breaking of the genre’s foremost rule has always kept me sidelined in the romance community. In terms of our careers, it’s the one thing Jess has that I don’t—a spot in the community we both love.
So I give her an honest answer. “I don’t know.”
She gives me a pointed look. “That’s a cop-out.”
“It’s the truth. I’m not opposed to happy endings, I can’t say with certainty I’ll never write one, but I can’t promise I will either. I don’t know how to write something that seems so impossible.”
She tosses back another sip of whiskey. “And yet, I manage to write them just fine, and I’m the one who had my heart broken.”
I run my thumb along the rim of my glass, studying the motion so I don’t have to look at her. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it broke my heart too, Jess.”
“Then why did you do it?”
I’ve been waiting for that. The one question I can’t answer, not even when I ask it of myself. “I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”
“Fine then. Go ahead.”
“Are you still attracted to me?” I know it’s a question I shouldn’t be asking, but it’s the best way I can think of to divert her. The chemistry between us was always palpable, and nothing about that has changed. This might be the only way to steer her off course. “Do you ever think about me when you, you know…”
Her cheeks flush, but she’s not going down without a fight. She leans forward in her chair. “Do I think about you when I what? Have sex with someone else?”
I shut my eyes against that image. “No. Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself, Jess?”
She waits for me to open my eyes and meet her gaze before she slowly brings her glass up to her lips. Her tongue darts out, licking a stray drop of liquor from the rim. Then she drinks.
I grin in triumph.
Her eyes narrow. “Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?”
I raise my glass but don’t sip. “All the fucking time.”
Her breath catches in her chest. “Jesus, Nick,” she mumbles.
I love seeing her flustered, and so I keep pushing. “Of all the times we slept together, which was the best for you? I know they were all good, of course, but which time stands out the most?”
For a second, I think she won’t answer, but I catch the moment when she realizes I have the upper hand. It plays across her face. And I see the moment when she decides to fight back. Which is exactly what I want. Because if she asks me again why I broke up with her, I might actually tell her.
She rests her elbows on her knees, the glass of whiskey cupped in her hands. The move makes it easy for me to see down the deep vee of her shirt. My shirt. I always loved seeing her wear my clothes, and now, with the outline of her lacy red bra visible, well, I shift in my seat a little, the tightness of my jeans becoming uncomfortable.
“There were quite a few. But I think my favorite one was that one time at my parents’ house.”
