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He gives an incredulous laugh. “Un-fucking-believable. Even on your way to surprise your boyfriend, you’re still preoccupied with my sex life.”
“I don’t give a crap about your sex life,” I mutter.
In what has to be the worst possible timing for a traffic jam, we come to a complete standstill on the crowded freeway, and Reece slowly turns toward me, shoving his own glasses on top of his head, his blue eyes hot and angry. He braces one hand against the back of my headrest as he studies me.
“What?” I snap.
His smile is slow and lethal. “Liar. You’re thinking all about my sex life. I think that’s what’s got you fussy. You’re thinking about me sleeping with other women a lot more than you’re thinking about you sleeping with Oscar.”
I start to roll my eyes and turn toward the window, but he snags one long finger under my chin, pulling my face around to his.
“Deny it,” he says, his voice low. “Deny that the outfit wasn’t for me. That you’re having a hard time remembering your boyfriend’s name when I’m around.”
“That’s crap,” I snap. “I haven’t thought about you like that in years. I hate you.”
H
e smiles as his finger strokes along my jawline. “Yeah. Yeah you do. But you want me.”
“I don’t.”
But the effect of his cool finger against my hot skin threatens to make a liar out of me, so I bat it away and jerk my chin toward the road. “Traffic’s moving. I think we’re close. I need to find you a place to stay so I can get to Oscar’s restaurant.”
His jaw tenses. “Give me the directions there. I’ll drop you off and get you out of my hair.”
“So that you can get into someone else’s pants?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Probably a good thing, since we seem to be going in circles. Snap, snap, scratch, bite.
It’s exhausting, and a little sad, honestly. Because I know if either of us let our guard down even a tiny bit, we’d find what’s always been there. A friendship for the ages—a connection I’ve never felt with anyone else.
But with that sort of intensity comes risk—one that didn’t pay off for us.
I’ve written down detailed directions to Oscar’s place, and I read them in a monotone voice as we make our way through crowded Miami.
And the closer we get to Flame, the more antsy I get, and I can’t figure out if it’s nerves or excitement or anger or regret or just some vague sense of uneasiness.
“There,” I say, pointing when I see the sign for his place, suddenly excited, even amid all the nervousness.
Reece says nothing as we approach the restaurant. Flame is in the heart of trendy South Beach, and I haven’t exactly thought through the whole parking/grabbing my stuff scenario, and I bite my lip.
“Go,” he says gruffly, pulling to the curb.
I give him a nervous look, but his expression is unreadable. “What about my stuff? I guess I could take my bag in with me….”
He snorts. “And ruin the effect of that short skirt? Even I don’t hate you that much. I’ll catch up with you later. After I’ve hooked up with, how many girls was it again? Twelve?”
I smile a little because his voice is more teasing than angry for once. “Might as well add one more. Baker’s dozen.”
He laughs, and my heart hurts at the flood of memories. Of how we used to talk so easily, how we used to laugh so much…
“Go get your guy. Surprise the shit out of him.”
He says it in an easy tone, but I wonder if this is hard for him. Watching me go to another guy.
God knows it’s hard for me to walk away from this guy for another.
Our gazes hold, and, not for the first time, I’m struck by just what a bad idea this road trip was, rousing up memories that should have been left behind. And I’m fast learning that the good memories hurt even more than the bad ones.
