Our server arrives, and Jack asks if I’d like a glass of wine. Inod, lost in my thoughts as I repeatedly tell myself not to cry. I’m not a crier.
Okay, so maybe a little, but I just freaking survived multiple near-death experiences, surely that comes with a boost of toughness?
“Lo?” Jack’s voice breaks the spiral, and I blink at him.
“Hmm?”
“You okay?” He frowns, and I just barely suppress a groan, because it’s stupidly unfair to be so undone by a man’s scowl.
“Yup. So you’ve really never had the elk bolognese?” I ask, redirecting the conversation. Because I need to make it through this meal without having a breakdown.
His face softens with a smile. “I only come here for a drink now and then. Otherwise, I eat at my camper.”
“I’d like to see this camper of yours.” I lean forward, my elbows on the table and a grin curling my lips. But I clear my throat and tuck my hands under my thighs once I realize how presumptuous that sounds. My chin dips as I feel my ears turning red. Thankfully, I’m saved from seeing Jack’s response when the server returns to set our wine glasses down and takes our orders. She’s all smiles for Jack, not even noticing the unimpressed glower I’m aiming her way. With an exaggerated giggle, she saunters away while I imagine leaping on her in a blind rage and shoutingMine!
I might be hangry.
“Willow…” Jack gets my attention, the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes, but that uncharacteristic fidgeting overtakes him again when I meet his gaze.
“Please don’t do this before the bolognese,” I groan. “At least let me enjoy this meal in ignorant bliss before?—”
“Lo, I want to—” Jack says at the same time, his hand reaching for mine, except he’s developed an adorable case ofclumsiness and knocks over his glass, sending a splash of red wine right onto my chest.
When I saychest, I meanboobs.
A laugh escapes when I glance down at the crimson stain that looks like someone painted a bullseye over my left ta-ta. Jack does a half stand, grabs his napkin and dabs at the stain before freezing. I drag my eyes from my boob that we’ve both realized he was just patting down.
“I’m so sorry,” he says before he plops back into his seat and rubs a hand over his face while his ears darken. This poor man—just out here trying to maintain his grizzly bear status, and he turns into a goof.
“It’s okay,” I say with a reassuring smile. I should probably be more annoyed, but the truth is that I’m just hoping he’s turned into a klutz because he’s at least a little hesitant to say goodbye to me forever.
“I’m gonna run to the ladies’ room and try to deal with this.” I gesture to the stain on my dress. “Tell them to hold my bolognese if I’m not back when it comes out, please. I don’t want it to get cold.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Again. I’m so sorry. And about what you said, I?—”
I swallow hard. Is he really so eager to break my heart that he can’t even wait for me to dry my boob? “It’s okay. Let’s just finish our meal, then we can talk,” I choke out. I’m proud of myself for getting that out despite my slightly wobbly lip, because this really is going to hurt.
I grab my purse and rush off to the restroom before he can say anything else, curling my lips to stave off the small sob that wants to escape, at least until I make it to the restroom.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Just before I turn down the short corridor to the restrooms, I glance back to find Jack hunching forward and burying his face in the palms of his hands. You’d swear the man just found out frowning was illegal.
Ugh.He was nervous, but he was finally talking, and I tanked it.
I blow air from my lips as I make my way into the restroom and go over to the sink, cringing at the reflection that greets me. I don’t even have a coat or a sweater to cover up the wet spot on my boob. I wet a paper towel and try dabbing at it, but when it only makes the stain worse, I shrug my shoulders, deciding I don’t really care all that much what anyone thinks. I’m more worried about missing my meal and being told I’m not worth the risk of a relationship with the first man who’s ever made mewanta serious relationship.
The stain on this dress is a tiny speck on the scale of things I’m worried about.
I set my hands down over the cool marble countertop around the sink, leaning forward and preparing to give thewoman in the mirror a good ol’ talking to, but the restroom door swings open.
“Bonnie?” I smile, turning with pride to face the woman who didn’t think I’d make it across the canyon. But rather than being met with a sheepish or even friendly look, there’s an alarming glint in the narrowing of her eyes. She plasters an “Out Of Order” sign on the door before stepping inside and shutting it behind her.
“Willow Sinclair.” She clicks her tongue, keeping her hands behind her back while her mouth twists in a regretful arch that doesn’t make me feel hopeful about what’s about to transpire.
The foreboding click of the door lock engaging behind her echoes throughout the room.
Bonnie reaches into the crossbody bag strung over her torso, pulling out a small pistol that shrinks the room as she nonchalantly rests it against her leg.
