Page 11 of The Detour

“They sure do,” he murmurs in a way that has hope fluttering in my belly.

Ignore it, Sophie. He told you he didn’t love you. He told you it was nothing but good sex and fun times. He told you he didn’t want you.

And yet our eyes hold, and I see so much more in his eyes—longing, sadness, affection, love—and my confusion deepens further.

“You working?”

Startled, I look up to find Vix standing there with her hands on her hips and her eyes glancing at my screen and then back to me.

Ah, so Saint told her what I do for a living. I wait for the questions to come but am pleasantly surprised when they don’t.

Maybe he didn’t tell her.

“Yeah. Just trying to play catch up,” I say, more distracted than not that my train of thought was just disrupted.

“Saint says you need dinner.”

“Does Saint always have a habit of bossing people around?” I tease as I glance over her shoulder to the man himself.

“Only when he likes you.” Her smile is quick, and the laugh that falls from her lips is knowing. “So, what’ll it be?”

I glance down to the menu and make a quick decision.

“Another glass of wine?” she asks.

“Why the hell not?” I shrug as a table to our left erupts in laughter. “Are you always this busy?”

“Only every day that ends in Y,” she says. “I’ll get that out to you as soon as it’s done.”

“Thank you.”

Excited that I’m writing for the first time, I read the words on my screen again and then laugh when I realize I’m envisioning Saint every time I type Luke and me in the role of Sophie.

“Whatever works,” I mutter as I begin to write again.

“You missed me,” I tell Luke as he fills a drink order.

“Not any more than I miss anyone else who leaves this town.”

“You’re lying,” I push, looking for something—anything—to get him to admit that his feelings are still there, still burning bright like mine are.

“How’s Hollywood?”

“It’s . . .” Different without you. Lonely. “Hollywood.” I shrug. “A lot of people, a lot of competition, a lot of everything.” I muster a half-smile.

“And it seems like you’re taking it by storm.” He wipes his hand on the towel tucked into the waistband of his pants.

“I got lucky.”

“A recurring role on the hottest sitcom on air? I’d call that more than lucky.” He holds a finger up to someone looking for his attention. “I’m surprised you could remember your way back here.”

His words sting. They feel hurtful on purpose, leaving me wondering what I ever did to him.

Other than leave him behind.

“Like I said, Luke. This is my home. I’ll always want to come back here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fine. . . until you don’t want to come back here anymore.”