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I can’t help but smile, even if there’s a painful longing in my chest. “He took his time, though.” I roll my eyes at the thought and resort to picking up my iced tea once again. It’s tart, making my lips pucker after a sip before I reach for the sugar.
“What was it? It took him what, a year?” he asks me, and it’s easy. It turns easy, thinking about how we came to fall in love. How he went from a man I wanted and enjoyed the occasional fling with, to a man who only wanted me and who I couldn’t imagine living my life without.
“Every third Saturday for …” I trail off, peeking up past the heat lamp and spot a small blue jay on the roof. “Maybe four months it was just that one night?”
“At Monet’s, right?” I nod in response, the memories filtering back to me. It was a good time. That’s all he was. We ran in the same circles. Knew the same people. One night, after I’d been avoiding him, teasing him, leading him on … we hit it off and had a romp in the sheets. It was a fling, a damn good fling. I thought it would only be that one night, but the next month, at the same gathering, he made it known in no uncertain terms that I’d be with him again that night.
“And then it was house calls and almost nine months later is when he got in that fight with Taylor.”
Kam’s brow raises and he lifts his coffee mug and then says, “Oh yes, and that would be the moment I told you to dump his ass.”
Biting down on my lip I remember that entire ordeal as Kam continues, “He couldn’t call you his girlfriend, but he could start some shit with Taylor.” Taylor’s no one really. He’s the son of a hotshot, who’s hot as fuck himself. He got through life on good looks. He’s nice enough, but he wasn’t looking for anything more than a good time. Which was fine, ’cause that’s what I was after too. I figured James only wanted me the once, or else he would have called. He would have reached out. So I made my move for Taylor and that’s when James intervened.
With a one-shoulder shrug I remind him, “I might have been the one to start it … technically.”
Kam’s laugh is as genuine as it is enthusiastic. “That’s right,” he says and his smile is contagious. “Now I remember that reporter with the press article that we had to pay off.”
I hum at the memory. “The truth was much better than fiction.” As the waiter brings the avocado caprese salad, which looks divine drizzled with a thick balsamic vinegar, I lean back in the chair to give him room.
“The truth always is better than fiction,” Kam comments and then smiles up at the waiter to thank him. I don’t miss how the waiter gives Kam a longer glance than he gave me.
Speaking of hot men, I think as I watch the tall young man, he’s got to be no older than midtwenties. In other words, way too young for Kam. And it’s quite obvious he’s interested in Kam.
“Flirt,” I speak beneath my breath and smirk at Kam the moment the waiter has left us.
Kam has the audacity to deny it as the blush reaches his cheeks. He’s freshly shaven so it can’t hide behind stubble.
My fork spears through the ripe tomatoes and I let Kam pretend that I’ve forgotten. The bird I saw a moment ago flutters in a way that steals my gaze. He’s a vibrant blue, perched on the edge and more than likely waiting for scraps.
“So,” Kam gets my attention before asking, “is Zander your boyfriend then?” He raises a single brow in question.
With a thump in my chest, I don’t know how to answer him so I retreat to draining the rest of my tea. Twirling the straw forces the ice to clink against the glass. After an awkward moment, I ask him, “I thought we were going to discuss selling my properties … and you know? Moving on.” I hate the term. I’ll never move on. Damon says you move through it, and there’s a piece that’s always there. I prefer that.
His expression drops as he nods, his tone more serious. “It’s not the best time to sell, so we could wait, and sell when the market’s better. Or if you’d rather just be done with it, we’ll still get a good deal, just maybe not a great one. Either way, whatever you feel comfortable with, we can maneuver.”
Whatever I feel comfortable with. His words repeat in my head as the memories filter back. I can’t stop them. Just thinking of our home together, of the furniture, the majority of it his, I can barely keep myself composed when I remember how we broke in the dark gray Old English-style sofa of our first place together. So many firsts happened in that house.
