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She’s hinting at her mom, but that’s not a lie, is it? It’s more a withholding of the truth. Great, that’s where my behavior has landed me—goddamn technicalities.
“I’m telling the truth about your work.”
“Okay, but is it the work or because you knowIwrote it?”
Her hand fidgets in mine, but she doesn’t let go. I smooth my thumb over her knuckles, a gesture that feels stunningly intimate somehow. I imagine smoothing my thumb the same way in the future when she’s resting her hand on her belly, anticipating the life growing inside of her.
“If I’d read those chapters without knowing who wrote them, my notes would be the same. I promise.”
She finally beams, gifting me with a gorgeous face full of happiness.
“So I’m notcompletelyterrible?”
“You’re talented. The places I’ve marked for improvement are mostly technical, pitfalls you might not be aware of since you’re so beautifully, adorably, perfectly young.”
With each adjective, her smile widens, but it drops when she glances over my shoulder. Quickly, she withdraws her hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles.
Before I can reply, the waitress appears beside our table. She was the person Zoey must’ve been looking at, the reason for her sudden shift in mood. The waitress is around Zoey’s age. She’s the sort of woman who knows how attractive she is. Not thatIfind her attractive.
I don’t find any woman attractive, except for my Zoey, but the waitress is the kind of woman most men go for. She’s got blond hair and an athletic figure. She’s nothing to me, but Zoey thinks competition has strutted over. There’snocompetition with Zoey from anyone.
“Oh, wow,” the waitress says. “You’re Jaxson Jordan, aren’t you?”
I inwardly groan. In Special Forces, I was used to being nameless and faceless, and after, as a writer, it was much the same. Sure, I’ve been on red carpets and featured in magazines, but writing is still a primarily anonymous profession, even for the successful.
“Guilty,” I tell the woman.
“My dadlovesyour books. He has every single one. I knew it was you.”
I’m doing my best to be civil and shape my lips into a smile, but I’m far too aware of Zoey’s awkwardness. She’s staring at the table like she wants the candle to consume the whole thing, the decking, the restaurant, to make this stop.
“That’s very kind.”
“Could I get a photo? He’llfreak.”
I glance at Zoey, wishing the waitress would leave so I could explain nobody else matters. Zoey looks at me and nods shortly. Shewantsme to take the photo? Or maybe she knows it’s the quickest way to end this. Standing, I move over to the waitress. She takes her phone from her pocket and shifts as though to wrap her arm around me.
“It’s fine like this,” I tell her stiffly, without touching her.
She huffs but then quickly snaps the photo. “Thanks so much. My dad is going to lose his mind.”
“You’re very welcome,” I say, returning to my chair. “Zoey, what would you like to drink?”
Zoey winces when I say her name.
I don’t want this woman. I don’t want anybody else… ever.
There’s no way for me to tell her that with the waitress still hovering.
“Whatever you’re having,” she murmurs.
“Two orange sodas,” I tell the waitress.
She stares at me for a few long moments,toolong, in truth. It’s like she’s trying to seduce me with her eyes. I’ve always hated interactions like this, the woman essentially offering themselves up, with no shame or thought of the future.
