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I can’t breathe. “We shouldn’t do this.”
He stops a few feet away, head tilting. Evening light caresses his cheekbones, the dark gold stubble on his jaw. “Why?” he asks softly.
My hand flaps in his direction. “Because whatever this is, whatever you want from me, it’s not going to happen.”
His features still. “And what is it you think I want from you?”
Anger flares. “Quit playing games, Lucas. The inappropriate face touch at Wild Lake? The charming bullshit? Looking at me like… like… that!”
His lips quirk sideways, like he’s trying not to smile. “You think I want to fuck you, huh?”
My jaw drops, then snaps closed. That is definitely not something the old Lucas would say. But he’s not him. This is a grown-ass man who I haven’t seen in over a decade. I have no idea who he is anymore, not really.
“I’m out of here.” I march up the path to the street.
Behind me, Lucas groans in aggravation. “Peapod! Stop, okay? I’m not gonna put the moves on you! I’m sorry I used the ‘F’ word. I didn’t realize you’d turned into a Puritan!”
“Fuck you, Lucas.”
He catches up to me just as I’m about to cross the street back to Rose House. A touch on my shoulder stops me—not because it’s forceful, but because it’s not. Because I felt the tremble in his fingers.
“Please,” he says softly, blue eyes direct on mine. “I just want to hang out with you. I miss you.”
“That’s on you,” I say, but without any real heat.
“I’m sorry. Again. I didn’t mean what I said that night. I was out of my mind. Believe me.”
I actually do believe him. As much as I’d like to cuddle the old resentment for all time, the fact is that grief makes people do crazy shit. I should know. And while I might like to, I can’t hold his harsh words to me after Jeremy’s funeral against him forever. I said some horrible things to him, too. And to my parents, random strangers, and most notably, the well-intentioned people who didn’t know what to say to me and ended up regurgitating tired adages.
You’re young. You’ll find love again.
He’s in a better place.
Better to have loved and lost.
What no one understands is that it isn’t the loss that destroys a widow—it’s not recognizing the life that goes on. That, and the literal brain trauma that results from the world as you know it ending.
Lucas watches me, patiently waiting for me to come to a decision. He was always the rash one; Jeremy and I preferred to think things through.
“What’s for dinner?” I finally ask.
Lucas grins, shoulders relaxing. “Steaks. I think. If I can figure out how to work the grill out back.”
“You mean if I can figure it out?”
He gasps in mock horror. “No way you’re handling my meat, woman!”
I groan.
Maybe he’s the same Lucas, after all.
He figures out the grill, a monstrosity set in stone in a giant outdoor kitchen. Beyond is a thick line of trees that whisper with each passing breeze. It’s like another world—no neighbors, no traffic. The world of wealth.
I lounge at a glass-topped table with a bottle of beer, my feet on the cushion of another seat, and pretend I’m perfectly comfortable with luxury. The one thing I’m totally on board with enjoying, however, is the fact I was able to discard my sweater and shoes thanks to a giant overhead heater staving off the chilly night air.
As Lucas flips meat and grills veggies, we talk about inconsequential things. Old classmates. Town gossip. I tell him the story of how Ethan Hart, an internationally bestselling author, landed in Rose House and Zoey’s heart nearly five years ago.
And eventually, I tell him about Damien.
