Page 18 of Wreckage and Rain

Then he sees my face and stops.

That pause hurts more than the words. I watch him go back through the night, looking for a version he can defend.

“Cheyenne suggested dinner,” he says. “We were still working at six. Neither of us had eaten.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I know.” He drags a hand over his mouth. “I said the office because that’s where we were when I texted you. I didn’t think about it.”

“You knew you were leaving.”

“Yes.”

The word hangs there.

He looks down for a second.

“Yes. I knew.”

Something inside me drops.

“You said, ‘Eat without me.’”

“Because I didn’t want you waiting.”

“I was waiting.”

“I know that now.”

“No, Colt. You knew then. You knew I was home. You knew I’d probably made dinner. You just didn’t want to explain where you were going.”

He takes a step toward me.

I step back.

He notices.

“Summer, nothing happened.”

“You lied before anything even had the chance to happen.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It was work.” His voice rises, then softens immediately. “It was Calloway and the term sheet and a deadline we’ve been buried under for a month. We went somewhere close, had dinner, and kept talking. That’s all.”

“At The Butcher Block.”

His jaw shifts.

“She picked it.”

“And the wine?”

“We ordered wine.”

“The candle?”