“State of the art?” he smirks, turning to face me, and we're standing too close again.
"Nick helped out a lot, especially getting investors on board in the beginning. Although now I own it entirley. But yeah. It's more than what I imagined."
He pauses, and his eyes drop to my left hand—still bare—before meeting mine again.
"Your book—the adaptation. When does filming start?"
"Supposed to in a few of weeks. Though Wes keeps pushing for me to come back early for pre-production meetings."
"Wes." He says the name carefully, neutrally, but the muscle in his jaw jumps. "Congratulations by the way. On the engagement.”
“Thanks.” The word tastes like ash.
Everything about this conversation feels wrong—talking about Wes while standing this close to Nate.
I feel like a really shitty human.
Like, genuinely terrible.
I have a fiancé. A man who proposed to me with a ring that cost more than most people's cars. And here I am, standing in my ex's studio, pulse racing because he's close enough that I can smell his goddamn soap, actively suppressing the urge to close the gap between us.
Why is adulting so hard?
Better yet, why are feelings so complex to understand, let alone try to manage?
Shouldn't there be a manual for this? A handbook that explains why you can logically know something is a bad idea while simultaneously wanting it with every cell in your body?Why your brain and your heart can be in completely different time zones and neither one will yield?
I should not be feeling any of this.
I should be thinking about Wes. About my future. About all the very sensible, adult reasons I'm engaged to someone who isn't Nate.
Instead, I'm cataloging the exact shade of brown in Nate's eyes and wondering if he's thinking about the distance between us too.
Great. Excellent. Really stellar human being behavior, Nora.
"Must be exciting," he says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite read. "Seeing your work come to life like that."
"It is," I say automatically. "It's also terrifying. What if they change everything? What if it's nothing like what I wrote?"
"Then it's their vision, not yours." He shifts slightly, and his hand comes to rest on the console, inches from mine.
Not touching. Never touching.
"Doesn't make what you created any less real."
The words settle something in me that's been unsettled for weeks.
We're quiet for a moment, music drifting in from somewhere—piano, melancholy and beautiful—and I'm suddenly aware that we're alone in this room.
The air thickens.
I should leave and lock myself in my cabin because I'm engaged and he's moved on and this dangerous pull between us is just nostalgia, just muscle memory, just?—
"I never doubted you," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can stop them. God, what is wrong with me. "Even when we were in Málaga and you were talking about this like it was a sure thing, I believed you'd do it."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something raw in them, something that makes it hard to breathe.
"I remember those conversations."
