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Does he know that?
Pushing my doubts aside, I step inside and try not to let my shock show as I take in the rearranged furniture. The white wicker chairs are pushed closer together, a small white-painted iron table sits between them, a vase holding a few lopsided sunflowers in it.
“Isaac?” I breathe, still taking everything in. He ignores me as he leads me to the chair and gently guides me onto it. I sink down, my breath hitching as he slides his hand down my ponytail with a tiny tug before moving to the chair beside mine.
“Since our dinner was interrupted,” he says, grabbing something on the floor beside him, “I thought we could have lunch together.”
“In here?” I look around as if this isn’t my house, like it isn’t the sunroom that I’ve spent nearly every morning in for the last four years.
I watch, wide-eyed, as he sets a plate in front of me before placing a paper-wrapped sandwich on it. He leans over again, producing two bottles of water and sets them on the table between us. Lastly, he settles his own sandwich on a plate and leans back in his chair.
“I didn’t make it,” he admits shyly, gripping the plate. “But it’s from The Crispy Biscuit, and I know how much you love their BLT’s.” I smile softly as I unwrap the brown paper, nearly moaning at the rich scent of bacon wafting from it.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I murmur, glancing at him through my lashes.
“It wasn’t any trouble.” My stomach tightens at the way his voice dips, the way his eyes drop to my mouth. “Eat up, sweetheart.”
God, what’s wrong with me? Why was that so freaking hot?
I watch as he lifts his usual order—a turkey sandwich on wheat with extra tomatoes—and sinks his teeth into the soft bread. My pussy stupidly throbs at the way his tongue snakes along his lower lip, licking up the crumbs.
Fuck. I’m so, so screwed.
He dabs the rough paper napkin at the corner of his mouth, and I immediately drop my eyes. Eating shouldn’t be hot, but he somehow makes it seem like the most erotic thing in the world.
“Listen,” he says, drawing my attention again. I look up, finding him staring intently at me. “While I was away, I did some thinking.”
My stomach twists for an entirely new reason. I should’ve known there was a reason for this lunch, and it wasn’t to make up for Mary crashing dinner. My body tenses and I set my sandwich down, unable to think about food while he’s looking at me so seriously.
“I wanted to talk to you about this last night, but…” He trails off on a sigh, and I nod, not needing him to finish the sentence. I know why we couldn’t. Because of her.
“What did you want to talk about?” I warily ask, unsure if I want to actually have this conversation or not, but I’m here, right where he wants me, unable to leave.
A million things run through my mind as I try to think about what he could possibly want to discuss. But then I remember the pet store incident and I want to crawl into a hole and die.
Had he found out? Of course, he had. He’s Isaac. He knows everything.
Shit. I’m about to be a whole-ass grounded adult.
“I know you really wanted to go to Savannah with Olive,” he says, and I blink at him. Okay, not the direction I thought we were going. Regardless, my stomach sours at the reminder of how quickly he’d dismissed me before he left. “But I can’t stand the idea of you being in the car for that long of a drive without me.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say softly, and he gives me a grim smile.
“I thought Cami would be fine, too,” he murmurs. “But she wasn’t. She died behind the wheel, and every time I think of you driving, it makes me sick. I—I can’t lose you, sweetheart.” His voice thickens, and regret pools in my gut.
I hadn’t even thought about Cami or his trauma. How could I be so selfish? Of course, he wouldn’t want me driving. He was in the car. Roman was in the car. They both watched her die. Jesus.
“It’s okay,” I say, hesitating before reaching out and grabbing his hand. He wraps his other hand around mine, absently stroking his thumb back and forth.
“I know I’m not Olive,” he says softly, his eyes on our hands, “but would you want to go with me? I booked us a hotel room and bought tickets to the festival already, but if you’d rather not go, I can cancel.”
My heart stops.
Time and air whooshes between us like waves lapping at the sand as I struggle to breathe. My mind races rapidly, searching for an explanation for this—his behavior, the shift between us, his thoughtfulness.
Confused doesn’t begin to explain how I feel right now.
“You bought tickets?” I whisper, and he glances up at me through his thick, black lashes. Hesitantly, he nods.
