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Things just weren’t the same between Georgia and me after the night we had our talk. We still spent time together, and most people wouldn’t have noticed the change from the outside, but I felt it. There was a wall that hadn’t been there before, something blocking my ability to feel as close to her. I understood it, of course. But it still wasn’t easy to accept. Every part of my body screamed to take back what I’d said and tell her I’d do whatever it took to make us work. Yet I didn’t, because deep down, I knew I was doing the right thing for her.
The following Saturday, I picked her up to go out to dinner. Our table wasn’t ready, so we waited at the bar and ordered a drink. While we were there, two women who didn’t look old enough to drink the alcohol in their hands recognized me.
“Oh my God! You’re Max Yearwood, aren’t you?” one of them asked.
I smiled politely and nodded.
They got up from their stools on the other side of Georgia and stood in front of me. “I love you so much. Please say you’re coming to California? We’re just visiting New York. We live in Santa Barbara.”
The announcement was coming in a few days, but I wasn’t about to have it leaked on a fan’s social media.
“We’re still working on things,” I said.
The taller of the two covered her heart with her hand. “God, you’re even better looking in person.”
My eyes slanted to Georgia and back to the women. “That’s very nice of you. But I’m sort of on a date.”
For the first time, the women seemed to notice someone sitting next to me. They looked Georgia up and down. “Are you his wife?” one of them asked.
Georgia shook her head.
“Girlfriend?”
My eyes caught with Georgia’s again. She frowned and shook her head.
The more aggressive, taller one reached into her purse. She pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “If you do wind up in LA and want someone to show you around, I’d be happy to.”
I held up my hand. “I’m good, thanks.”
The woman shrugged. “Can I at least get a selfie with you?”
“I’d rather not. Like I said, I’m on a date.”
Luckily the hostess walked over and interrupted. “Your table is ready, Mr. Yearwood.”
“Thank you.” I gave the ladies a curt nod before offering my hand to Georgia. “It was nice meeting you.”
After we were seated, Georgia was quiet.
“I’m sorry about that.”
She laid her napkin across her lap. “It’s fine. You should’ve taken her number. They were both pretty.”
I frowned sharply. “I wouldn’t do that.”
Georgia drew figure eights in the condensation on her water glass. “Do you remember when we first met, and I told you one of the things I wanted to work on was to stop overanalyzing everything?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, I spent this week completely preoccupied about something, and I think I just came to a decision.”
Considering where this conversation had started—with two women who lived out in California trying to give me their number—I didn’t have a good feeling. “A decision on what?”
She looked up. “I think we need to say our goodbye now, Max.”
My heart jumped into my throat. “What? Why? Because of those women?”
Georgia shook her head. “No, I’ve been thinking about it all week. It’s just… It’s hard for me, sort of like pulling the Band-Aid off a wound a little at a time. I need to rip it at this point and start to heal.”
Fuck. I forced myself to look into her eyes, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Her beautiful green eyes swam with heartache, and I don’t know how I hadn’t seen it until this moment, but they also had dark circles beneath them, coming through a layer of makeup. She didn’t normally even wear stuff on her face. I felt like throwing up.
All I wanted was to convince her to stick it out until the end. It was only a few weeks anyway. Maybe it was the giant ego everyone always said I had, but I felt like I could talk her out of it, if I tried hard enough. But…that would be selfish.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had no choice but to agree. The very least I could do was make it easier on her. So I gulped down the lump in my throat and nodded. “Okay. I understand.” I waited a minute. When she was still quiet, I said, “Do you want to go? We don’t have to have dinner.”
“No, it’s fine. We’re here. And I do enjoy your company.”
Thank fuck. “Okay.”
“Do you think we can just not talk about it and have a nice dinner?”
“Sure.”
Over the next hour, we talked about my trip to California, a new line of outdoor products she wanted to look into developing, and how the ladies who watched my dogs were going to use my apartment to bake their dog treats after I left since I still had six months on my lease.
