Page 94 of The Sweetness of Life

I’m not above begging. Can she hear the desperation? Does she see it blanketed all over me? I hope so, because I need this resolved between us. I need her.

A light flips on in the back of the restaurant and pushes the shadows off her face. She pinches her lips together, looks off to the side, and lets her bag slide off her shoulder and down to the ground. Tension I didn’t know I was holding falls with it.

“Okay, well here I am. Talk.” There’s fire under her words and skin. I can feel the heat, and I welcome it.

“Why wouldn’t you call me back?”

Her face falls a little, but her eyes lift to find mine. “You know why.” She stuffs her thumbs in her pockets and shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“That isn’t good enough.” I lean toward her a little and her back straightens.

“Well, it has to be. I don’t even understand what you want to talk about in the first place.”

“Well, for starters,” I say, a little calmer and softer, “I never got to thank you for the blog post.”

Her mouth falls open, and her brows pull down. “You’re joking. You hate critics, remember?”

“No, I’m not joking, and it turns out I don’t hate all critics.” My mouth twitches, giving her a glimpse of a grin.

She hears the implication between my words, and her cheeks flush.

“That morning after you left, I locked myself in my apartment and stared at my phone while it buzzed. Plenty of people have written posts about us over the years, but it doesn’t mean the same as when it comes from someone you admire and care for. I was nervous to read it, and I don’t know why, but when I finally opened it, I felt a pride I haven’t felt in a long time. Go ahead, take away the business it’s brought us—none of that even compares to what your words meant to me. Thank you, Shelby.”

“You care for me?” she asks, full of doubt.

“Yes, very much so. I’m sorry you feel the need to clarify that.” I’m reminded again that she isn’t just mad at me for the plan. She also thinks everything that happened between us was part of said plan. I hate that.

She walks over to the window, leans back against it, and stares at me. “I really do like your wines,” she says hesitantly, giving me a small smile.

“Any time you want some, all you have to do is text me and I’ll ship it up. Or, if you’ll let me, I’ll bring it in person.”

She thinks about my offer and chews on the inside of her lip as her gaze drops to my feet. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but she isn’t shooting daggers at me, so I’ll take it.

I also take it as an invitation to lean against the window next to her. She doesn’t move away. Instead, she tilts her head, looks over to meet my eyes, and takes in a deep breath. “Was it real for you? Did I make it all up in my head?”

“It was real—very unexpected, but so real.” Running my hand through my hair and across my neck, I think about how there are so many things I want to say to her. “Before you left, you told me I won, but you were wrong.” My eyes drift over her face and return to her eyes, her beautiful blue eyes. “Don’t you see? I lost. I lost the one person who has come to mean so much to me.”

As my words sink in, she lets out a long exhalation and shakes her head. “I don’t know. I mean, how is that even possible? I was only there for two weeks, and most of that time you spent hating me.”

“That isn’t true, and you know it,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Do I?” Her spark makes an appearance.

“Yes.” I lean down into her space to get my point across.

Her gaze scans over my face, and her lips curve down into a frown before she slowly reaches up and lightly runs her fingers across my cheekbone and down the stubble of my jaw.

My eyes momentarily drift shut at the contact, and my skin tingles in her wake. Yes, I know I look terrible, and no, I didn’t shave, but feeling her touch and this tiny flicker of concern she has for me tells me I did the right thing by coming here.

Realizing what she’s done, she yanks her hand back and her expression shifts to a scowl. Pushing away from the window, she walks a few paces down the sidewalk and then back. Her heels click loudly and she squeezes the bun on top of her head before stopping in front of me.

“Zach,” she starts, gesturing with her hands. “All of this . . . it’s so hard for me. I don’t just feel humiliated—I feel betrayed, too. It’s one thing to embarrass myself, and I’ve done that plenty of times in my lifetime, but I opened myself up to you. I bared it all, literally and figuratively. I never had anything to hide. Do I wish I had kept my cards closer? Maybe, but I don’t regret my actions. What you see is what you get. But all of you . . . you sucked me in so I would grow to care for each of you, and then I come to find out all of you were conniving against me and lying. Who does that?”

“It wasn’t a lie.” I shake my head, pushing off the window to stand closer to her.

“But it was.” She throws her hands out before they drop.

“Tell me, what can I do or say to you to make you believe differently?” I reach for her, but she steps away.