Patrick can hardly look at him when it’s over.
Tully nods, but his gaze stays on me. “Great idea, man. I choose No Kid Hungry, and I’ll match your donation. Have a good one.” He nods at me. “Lola.”
He walks off toward the locker room, back straight, every line of him screaming confidence.
Patrick turns to me with a grim expression. I can’t muster any encouraging words because I really dislike who Patrick becomes when he’s competitive. I force a smile, but my chest aches.
Less than an hour later, I open my phone and see photos of them mid-lift, side-by-side comparisons already circulating.
Patrick Martin may have won the championship, but Tully Whitman absolutely smoked Patrick at the gym. Who’s winning the offseason?
One photo zooms in on Tully’s form next to Patrick’s strained effort. The comments are brutal, mostly favoring Tully.
I close the app, but the images burn behind my eyes of the man I can’t have, the one who still makes my pulse race like no one else ever could.
The dim lighting at Elm & Echo is warm and inviting. The restaurant sits right on the edge of Windy Harbor’s marina, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the dark water, where boats bob gently under strings of fairy lights.
Patrick’s been brooding ever since we left the gym earlier today. He orders the steak and a bottle of cabernet, again without asking what I want. His jaw is tight, fork scraping the plate harder than necessary.
“Still can’t believe that guy,” he mutters, not for the first time. “He’s such an asshole.”
I swirl my wine, watching the legs trail down the glass. “You asked for a competition. He gave you one.”
He shoots me a look. “He was flexing. Hard. For you.” His eyes flick over me. “And you just stood there.”
I don’t answer. What does he want me to say? That I can’t unsee the way Tully’s shirt clung to him, the way his eyes found mine every time he finished a set? That just being near him still makes my pulse stutter?
The server brings our seared scallops appetizer, and I catch movement near the bar.
Tully is in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded and inked. He’s alone, nursing something amber, but his gaze lifts and locks on mine the second I look over.
My breath catches.
Patrick notices. His hand slides to my thigh under the table, possessive, thumb stroking in slow circles.
“You look incredible tonight,” he says, louder than necessary, bringing my hand up to his mouth to kiss my knuckles.
My skin prickles under Tully’s stare.
Dinner drags, and when I see Tully get up and walk away from the bar, my heart sinks. I don’t want him to leave. I excuse myself to visit the bathroom. The hallway is narrow,lined with black-and-white photos of old Windy Harbor fishing boats. I round the corner, and there he is, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting for me.
“Hi, Lola,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges.
“Hey.” I stop a few feet away, arms crossed to hide how my hands shake.
His eyes rake over me—slow and deliberate. My blue dress. The tattoos. “Still so beautiful.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thank you. You too. You are. Still…beautiful,” I finish awkwardly.
I sigh and put my hands on my face. I used to have no trouble maintaining my cool. Tully changed all of that, and it seems as if he’s still very effective with that gift.
“I have a question,” he says.
My heart drops. What does he want to know? Why did I leave? What happened back then?
He steps closer. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—woodsy and familiar. I breathe him in.
“Does he know you still look at me like this?” he asks.
