Page 103 of Lucky Shot

“That, right there.” He wags a finger at me. “You always turn things around rather than address them.”

“I do not.”

He rolls his eyes. “You do too.”

“I can’t do this right now. In truth, I can’t do this ever.”

“No one has done anything just yet, now, have they?” His voice is playful, but the glance my way is real.

But we have done something. We did do something. And all of those somethings are amounting to possibility and hope and everything I’ve always shied away from.

But for some reason, when it comes to him, the scary is overshadowed by . . . curiosity and how good he makes me feel on all fronts.

I’m slowly getting used to the idea.

I force myself to be as real as I can be with him—and myself. “I don’t—” I look away and drop my hands that I’ve thrown up in the air in exasperation once again. My stunted emotional capabilities aren’t exactly serving me well at this moment. “I’m trying to be or do whatever this needs me to be when I don’t know exactly what this is. I’m trying when I’ve never tried before and that says a lot about . . . you. This. Just everything.”

His smile is the slowest crawl of pride that paints his lips. “I’ll take that. Gladly.” He runs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Here’s the thing. All I know is that we like each other. You can refute that all you want but it’s a fact. There’s a chemistry I can’t explain, and I don’t think I want to. You feel it too, or you wouldn’t still be here considering your past admissions and history.”

Oh boy. The man is calling me on the carpet, and I’m at a loss for words because he’s one hundred percent right. “Okay.” I draw the word out, not trusting myself to say anything more.

“You challenge me. You’re gorgeous. You’re intelligent and sassy. I’m drawn to you in a way I don’t even understand, and fuck if I don’t want you again. What that means, who the hell knows, but isn’t that the fun part?”

“I don’t do fun,” I deadpan and push away the pain in my side.

He laughs. “The woman has jokes.” He bends his knees so we’re at eye level, and I’m unable to look anywhere else. “I think it’s time you need to start having some.”

“Sure. Fine. Right after I feel better.”

His smile ghosts over his lips and tugs on parts of me despite how ill I feel. “We’re making progress. That’s better than total rejection. I’ll take it.”

“You need help,” I say and push against his chest. “And I really need to go to bed.”

“You’re not looking too good,” he says.

“Already winning me over with compliments.” I smile through the nausea and hate that when he brushes my hair off my forehead and studies me, it takes everything not to ask him to take me to my real apartment so I can get there sooner.

“When go away is the bar you’ve set, I’m beginning to think I’m a goddamn Romeo.”

“You do know they both die in the end, right? Maybe use a different reference.”

We both chuckle, but then his face falls. “I’m serious, Whit. You don’t look good. Let me walk you—”

“No. I’ve got it. I’m good.” For a second, I forgot where we were and the lie I was upholding. That’s how lightheaded I am right now. “Good night. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for . . . going with me to take Joey home.”

“Feel better,” he says and nods.

And I almost cry in relief when the gate opens with the old code. I glance over my shoulder to where he’s still standing and wave goodbye to him, and then sag in relief against it when it closes at my back. My exhale is shaky as I move toward a bench in the courtyard, needing to sit. This pain is intensifying, and I’m silently begging him to drive away so I can get a rideshare back to my place.

As I sink down on the bench, all I want is some cold water on my face and my bed. But those two things don’t override the confusion that owns every one of my other thoughts.

How can I like a man who doesn’t understand my world? Who warns me not to go out at night in the very neighborhood that, unbeknownst to him, I live in?

How can I want a man who I know will be gone in a matter of months? And not just gone but on the world stage?

It’s like I know all the reasons why I shouldn’t want him, why I can’t want him, but then I keep wondering why I crave his touch, want to hear his laugh and think about seeing him again.

You’re insane, Whitney. Absolutely fucking insane.