Читать книгу About That Night - Beth Andrews - Страница 10
ОглавлениеGOTCHA.
Ivy Rutherford’s gaze snapped up to the cowboy’s. Her throat was dry, her palms damp.
She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, the single word triumphant. A challenge.
Oh, she was in so much trouble here.
Something passed between them. Something heated and tangible and, on her part, wholly unwanted. The music and sound of background conversation faded until it was nothing but a low hum. He edged closer and she breathed in his scent, something crisp and musky and undoubtedly expensive. Damn it. Damn it! She wanted him to touch her again. Wanted to do some touching of her own.
Gotcha, indeed.
Crap.
He needed to back up. He was close. Too close. Closer than was appropriate, especially for a waitress and a customer.
Way too close for her comfort.
Pride held her immobile. Forced her to stand her ground instead of stepping back the way she wanted and putting some much-needed distance between them.
“It’s cute that you think so,” she murmured, keeping her tone even. Her eyes steady on his. “But don’t be getting delusions of grandeur.”
If possible, his grin amped up another few degrees, all cocky and pleased with her response. She shouldn’t have found it so attractive.
“Aw, darlin’, you wound me.”
“I doubt that.”
He nodded, rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing as if he was in deep thought. “How about, you can’t blame a man for having such delusions when faced with you?”
She had to fight to hide a smile. “Better.”
“I was going to say when faced with one of God’s greatest works, but that seemed like overkill.”
She pointedly eyed his hat. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who cares much for being subtle.”
A middle-aged man brushed past them, and the cowboy stepped aside to give him more room, a handy excuse in Ivy’s mind to shift closer to her. “You’re right. I prefer the direct approach.” He scanned her face, taking his time before meeting her eyes again. “Makes it that much easier to get what I want.”
There was a strange fluttering in her chest. It was clear enough what he wanted.
Her.
He wasn’t the first. Wouldn’t be the last. Men were simple creatures, after all. They saw a pretty face, a curvy body and wanted them. If a woman coddled them a bit, stroked their...ego...and gave their friends something to envy, even better. For that, they’d put in the time, the effort to chase a woman, to make her his.
Until the thrill of that chase waned and the next woman came along.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you you don’t always get what you want?” Ivy asked.
He laughed, low and long, as if that had been the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked him.
Glad to know she could amuse him so.
“No,” he finally said when he’d contained his mirth. “My mother never told me that. No one has.”
“It’s like a dream come true,” she said drily. “Finally meeting a man brought up to believe that ordinary, mundane things such as failure and rejection are below him. Your mother didn’t do you any favors, did she? And since she didn’t, let me be the one to pass on this extremely valuable lesson. There comes a time in everyone’s life when there’s something they want, but it’s just out of their reach. That time has come for you.”
His grin sharpened. The gleam in his eyes turned downright predatory. “That sounds like a challenge.”
Dear Lord, he was right. She had been challenging him. Baiting him.
Flirting with him.
Okay, yes, she was attracted to him. She wasn’t dead, was she? And he was gorgeous—even with the cowboy hat. But she didn’t lose her head over things like a sharply planed face, wavy golden hair and a pair of broad shoulders all wrapped up in a perfectly tailored dark suit.
Men lost their heads over her.
She’d been twisting males around her little finger from the time she could talk, had learned at her mother’s knee how powerful a smile or glance could be. Yet, with this man, she felt unsure. Nervous that if she continued to play this dangerous game, she’d lose.
It was the way he watched her, she decided. As if he sensed the truth beneath her words. Could see what she so desperately needed to hide—her interest in him, how much she was enjoying him, his smile and humor, his confidence and looks.
You don’t always get what you want.
No, she certainly didn’t. That was life. One long journey of trying and trying and trying. Of mediocre triumphs and spectacular failures. She had no qualms about going after her goals, wasn’t afraid to fall on her face during a long, hard climb. But just because you wanted something, just because you busted your ass, kept your focus and worked hard every day didn’t mean you’d succeed.
Just because you wanted something didn’t mean it was good for you.
“Let me get you a drink,” the cowboy said, glancing around as if searching for a waitress—when one was right in front of him. “We can talk. Get to know each other better.”
“Yes, that sounds like a great idea. And I’m sure none of my coworkers, or my supervisor, will care if I sit down in the middle of my shift and toss back a few with a customer.”
He frowned. Scanned her from head to toe, as if suddenly remembering she should be getting him a drink. Not the other way around. “What time do you get done?”
“You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.” It was flattering. Knowing he was willing to work a bit to get her time and attention.
That she was seriously considering telling him she’d be done by midnight annoyed her to no end. She didn’t date customers, never hooked up with men she waited on. It set a bad precedence. Gave them the crazy idea that she’d serve them in bed, too.
An unsteady blonde in leather tottered over to them. Pressed against his side. “Darling,” she said, tugging at his elbow, “don’t flirt with the help. It’s unseemly.”
Ivy bit back a wince. Damned her cheeks for heating.
The help.
Well, if that didn’t put things into perspective, nothing would.
“Yes, darling,” Ivy said, mimicking the older woman’s slightly slurred, superior tone, “listen to your date. One must always remember one’s station in life.”
Ivy never forgot hers.
The blonde’s smile was none-too-sober and as fake as her boobs. “Aren’t you sweet?”
Ivy matched her toothy grin with one of her own. “Not particularly.”
“She’s not my date,” the cowboy said, keeping a hand on the woman’s upper arm. “She’s my mother.”
His tone was pure resignation with a bit of embarrassment thrown in for good measure. Ivy could relate. Her mother had never been able to grasp the concept of acting—or dressing—her age, either.
“I’ll have a dirty martini,” his mother told Ivy as she clung to her son’s arm—though Ivy guessed that had less to do with maternal love and more to do with her being three sheets to the wind. If she let go, she’d probably fall on her surgically modified, freakishly smooth face. Though that huge helmet of teased and sprayed hair might protect her from brain damage. “Three olives.”
“And damn the calories,” Ivy said under her breath, taking in the woman’s ultrathin frame. Looked as if those olives were tonight’s dinner.
She turned to the cowboy, was taken aback by his easy grin. Guess he’d heard her. She wanted to return his smile, but the help were to be seen, not heard. Ordered about, not engaged in small talk or flirtations. At least, not publicly.
She shook her head. She really needed to cut back on those reruns of Downton Abbey.
“And you, sir?”
His eyes narrowed on the sir, which, admittedly, she’d emphasized. No harm reminding them both why they were there. Who they were.
But she hated seeing that smile fade.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Neat.”
She inclined her head. “Right away.”
Ivy brushed past him. Could feel him watching her as she crossed the room toward the bar, but she refused to look back. Though she possibly added a bit more sway to her hips.
“Table 15 needs drinks,” she told her coworker Vanessa. “Could you handle that for me? Dirty martini for the Dancing Queen. Three olives.” They’d all seen the blonde shaking her ass in that leather dress. “Bourbon, neat, for the cowboy.”
Setting cocktail napkins on her tray while Kent, the bartender, filled her order, Vanessa shook her head, her short, artificially red hair swinging. “Don’t try to pawn your butt-grabber off on me. I’ve gone the entire evening without any pats, rubs or pinches. I’d like to keep it that way. Preserve the record.”
Ah, the life of a cocktail waitress. People thought the goods being displayed were theirs to touch. Even a subdued, family-type gathering such as an engagement party could get out of hand once the alcohol started flowing.
“He’s not a butt-grabber,” Ivy said. A man who looked like that, with that deep, subtle twang, didn’t have to resort to creepy tactics to get a woman’s attention.
“I was talking about the woman,” Vanessa said. “She looks capable and more than ready to eat anyone alive. And there must be a reason you don’t want to deliver them yourself.”
Many, many reasons. The number one being self-preservation.
“Trust me,” Ivy said. “Your butt is safe. And the reason I don’t want to deliver them myself is because it’s my break time.”
“Fine. I’ll switch you table 15 for table 8.”
“Done.” Ivy skirted the bar and snagged a flute of champagne from a tray before pushing through the door to a small hallway. She walked past the kitchen on her right, then, farther down, a small break room on the left and kept going until she reached the metal exterior door.
She pushed it open and stepped out into the night. The cold stung her cheeks, stole her breath. Still, she kept going, her high heels echoing on the pavement as she crossed the dimly lit parking lot to her ancient car. She climbed behind the wheel, shut the door and stared blindly through the windshield.
What was that? What the hell was that?
The cowboy had flustered her. Unnerved her. Worse than that, he’d known it.
She’d given him power. Control. Had pretty much handed them over to him on a platter along with her good sense and a portion of her pride.
She took a gulp of champagne. Bubbles exploded inside her mouth, the taste light and expensive, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness rising in her throat.
Men never flustered her. Why should they? They were simple souls with simple needs. Basic needs. When they saw her, they saw opportunity. What she could do for them. What she had to give them. How she could make them feel.
Why shouldn’t she turn that around—twist their desire for her, their attraction to her—to her advantage? A warm smile, a light, friendly touch to an arm, some harmless flirting could all increase her night’s tips.
And she was always—always—the one ruling the game.
Until one tall, green-eyed cowboy had to come along and mess things up.
She finished the champagne. Wished she’d helped herself to two glasses.
Or at least had had the foresight to grab her coat.
The cowboy’s fault, as well. He’d scrambled her thoughts. Her attraction to him had thrown her for a loop, but that was over now. No man got the better of Ivy Rutherford.
The passenger door was yanked opened and she squeaked in surprise, her breath hanging in the air a few inches before her face like a tiny cloud.
“What are you doing out here?” Ivy asked seventeen-year-old Gracie Weaver as the teenager flopped onto the seat and shut the door. “And where’s your coat?”
Ivy shook her head. Great. She sounded like a mom. Not Ivy’s mother, of course. One of those sitcom moms who always had time for their kids, cared about whether they were warm enough.
One of those moms who loved their daughters instead of blaming them for ruining their lives.
“Brian said he saw you leave,” Gracie said, her teeth already chattering. “I figured you’d be here.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“One of the guests wants to speak with you. Said it was important.”
Ivy’s fingers tightened on the glass so hard, she was afraid it’d shatter into a million pieces. Slowly, carefully she set it on the console next to her sunglasses and an empty to-go coffee cup.
“Oh?” Her voice sounded strangled, so she cleared her throat. “Which guest?” she asked, though she already knew.
Oh, yeah, she knew.
“The guy in the cowboy hat.”
“Tall? With blond hair and green eyes?”
“Yes and yes. Plus, he’s the only guy in the building—probably in the whole town—wearing a cowboy hat. Not sure how else to narrow it down for you.” Gracie frowned and rubbed her hands together, then blew on them. “Do you think it’s acceptable to wear a cowboy hat indoors? Because my grandma would have a fit if Dad wore his baseball cap inside the house.”
“Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” If Ivy didn’t keep Gracie on track, the kid could veer so far off topic, they’d never find their way back. “I’m sure whatever the cowboy wishes to discuss, he can do so with Wendy.” It would serve the cowboy right if Ivy sent her uptight supervisor over to see what he wanted. “Besides, I already switched tables with Vanessa. She’s more than capable of getting his drinks.”
“But he wants to talk to you,” Gracie said.
“He seems like a guy well used to getting his way.” She remembered the confidence in his eyes, bordering on arrogance. The way he held himself, as if he owned the room and everything—and everyone—in it. “This will be a great life lesson for him.”
“What if he gets upset?”
“He’ll get over it. A little disappointment never killed anyone.”
“I wouldn’t disappoint him.” The teen was all innocent earnestness and dreamy sighs. “He’s completely hot. And nice. We had a very interesting conversation earlier, and he didn’t come across as creepy at all.”
Ivy smiled. Leave it to Gracie to put her in a better mood, no matter what the situation. “Well, noncreep or not, I have no intention of doing his bidding.”
“I’m just saying he seems decent. And,” Gracie continued, pulling something from her pocket, “he gave me this for finding you.”
Ivy raised her eyebrows at the one hundred dollar bill currently being waved in her face. “Really? He bribed a minor to do his dirty work?”
Gracie wrinkled her nose. “I think it was more of a tip. Which means he’s generous.”
“What it means is that he’s willing to pay any price to get his way. That he doesn’t mind throwing his money around.”
“You could give him a chance. Maybe he just wants to get to know you.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Ivy said blandly. “After speaking with me for less than five minutes, he’s intrigued by my mind. Attracted to my sparkling personality.”
Oh, to be so young and innocent in the ways of the world.
Ivy almost envied the teen.
“It’s possible,” Gracie insisted. “Who knows? Maybe he’s your soul mate. And if you don’t go back there, you could miss your chance with him.”
“Honey, I believe in soul mates as much as I do Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” She softened her tone, squeezed Gracie’s arm. “But, to go along with your soul-mates-and-fate theory, we’ll just say if it’s meant to be, then it’ll be. I could ignore him for the rest of the night, and it wouldn’t change anything. We’d still end up together.”
As long as they ended up together on her terms. Not his.
“I just find it sad,” Gracie said with all the melodrama of a soap star, “incredibly, momentously sad, that you’re so...so...”
“So...pragmatic?” Ivy asked when the teenager struggled to find the right adjective. Which was unusual as Gracie typically had no trouble with words and loved using as many as possible. “Practical? Reasonable? Realistic?”
Gracie’s sigh was a work of art. Long-suffering and heartfelt. Ah, to be seventeen and a master of sarcasm. And a slave to emotions. “Cynical.”
“Well, that cuts deep, doesn’t it?” Giving her coworker a thoughtful frown, Ivy kept her tone somber. “But I’ve now seen the error of my sensible ways, thanks to your amazing grasp of syntax and the perfect amount of pathos in your tone.” She lifted the champagne flute in a mock toast. “Pink lacy hearts, huge diamonds and chocolates for everyone.”
Tucking one leg under the other, Gracie turned and studied Ivy with her too-intense gaze. “Molly says sarcasm is a defense mechanism used when someone hits too close to the truth.”
“Molly has six sons under the age of eight, one of them a newborn. It’s obvious your stepmother is a few kale leaves short of a pound, so we’re not going to take anything she says to heart.”
Another sigh from Gracie, this one just a few notches below resignation. At least all those heavy exhalations were warming up the car a bit. “Don’t worry. Someday, you’ll get over it.”
“If the it you’re referring to is my common sense, then sorry, but you’re going to be majorly disappointed. If a woman doesn’t have her wits about her, she has nothing.” Ivy dug out a pen and crumpled napkin from the console. Handed them to Gracie. “Write that bit of wisdom down so you remember it.”
Gracie didn’t even glance at the offerings in Ivy’s hands. “It being your broken heart. Someday, when you’re ready, it will mend, and you will be able to live your life free of all that anger and pain you carry around.” She tipped her head, her ponytail bouncing, and studied Ivy some more. “I’m surprised you don’t know this. You should have better self-awareness.”
Ivy laughed. She got such a kick out of this kid. “Honey, there’s not a woman alive who is more self-aware than I am.”
Gracie meant well, but she was way off base. Ivy had gone twenty-six years without suffering from a broken heart, and she planned on keeping that streak alive for...oh...forever sounded good.
She already knew the damage heartbreak could cause. It wore you down and stripped you of your pride, leaving you angry, resentful and so hurt, you never got over it.
She may not have experienced it firsthand, but she’d heard about it plenty, had witnessed its effects up close, thank you very much. Her mother had spent her entire life jumping from relationship to relationship, happily swallowing the lies men fed her, believing their promises only to be let down again and again.
So, yeah, Ivy knew all about the frailty of emotions. How they tricked you into believing foolish myths about happy endings and forever after. No other person could complete you or make you happy.
Give away your truth and you gave away the upper hand. Share your secrets, your hopes and dreams and desires, and you lost all power. The idea of true love looked good on paper, but in reality, it was complicated, often messy and, in many cases, downright ugly.
Loving someone made you vulnerable. Weak.
And any weakness led to pain.
* * *
GRACIE WATCHED IVY pick up the empty champagne glass, lift it to her mouth and tip it back. When nothing came out, Ivy held the glass out and glared at it, as if she’d expected bubbly wine to magically appear.
“Are you okay?” Gracie asked. She tucked her hands under her legs to warm them. Her nose was starting to run. She sniffed. “You’re acting...” Weird. Flustered. “...not like yourself.”
Ivy was not only possibly the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen in real life, she was also the coolest. Always in complete control of her emotions. Her actions.
Gracie knew her well enough to know it was a defense mechanism of some sort, a facade she kept up in order to keep people at bay. Still, she couldn’t help but admire Ivy for it.
“I’m fine. Come on. Let’s get back inside before we freeze to death.”
“Thank goodness.” They climbed out and crossed the parking lot, their steps quick, the click-click of Ivy’s heels ringing. Pressing her hands to her aching ears, Gracie hurried to keep up, though how Ivy could move so fast in those high heels—let alone how she wore them during her entire shift—was beyond Gracie. “Do you think there’s a correlation between low temperatures and hearing loss? I mean, the cold can affect blood circulation. Extreme heat can affect brain function.”
“I have no idea. I’m sure you could find out, though.”
That was the thing about Ivy. She never got frustrated with Gracie’s questions, was never short with her when she started talking, never interrupted her and told her to condense what she had to say and wrap it up already.
She listened. Really listened. And she believed in Gracie, in her ability to seek out her own answers. To find her own way.
Ivy opened the door, and they stepped into the blessedly warm hallway.
“I have a few more minutes left on my break,” Ivy said. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”
“Okay.” Gracie took the one-hundred-dollar bill from her pocket. “I suppose I should give this back to the hot cowboy.”
“Why would you do that?”
“He asked me to get you. I didn’t.”
“He asked you to deliver his message to me. Which you did.”
Gracie bit her lower lip. She could use the money, no lie. At the rate her parents kept having kids, they wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for her college tuition until she was sixty. “It doesn’t seem right.”
Ivy looked as if she was about to argue, but then she smiled. “It’s up to you. Follow your heart.” She picked a tiny silver piece of heart confetti from Gracie’s sleeve and handed it to her. “No pun intended.”
They parted ways at the end of the hall, Ivy heading into the kitchen, Gracie going back to the main room. The band was playing a slow country song long on melody and short on substance, repeating how love had saved some poor guy.
Gracie wanted to kick the lead singer in the shin. Get him to just stop already.
She was sick of love songs. Yes, it was an engagement party, so she supposed they were fitting, but add the songs to the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, and it was all just too much.
V-day. It was so dumb. All that pink. All those hearts and the sappy commercials telling you the only way you were worth anything was if you had a significant other.
It was ridiculous. Being single wasn’t a bad thing. You had to be comfortable being alone before you could fully be with someone else anyway.
And she’d keep telling herself that until she finally believed it.
The cowboy was still where she’d last seen him, but now he was talking to a beautiful blonde in a clingy red dress. The woman turned, gestured wildly with her hands, and Gracie realized she wasn’t a woman, but a girl around her own age.
A girl with the body of a twenty-five-year-old swimsuit model and the face of a beauty queen. The dress showed ample amounts of toned, tanned thighs and above-average boobs. Her hair fell, thick and straight, to her shoulders, the strands glossy and smooth.
Gracie touched a coarse, loose curl at her temple, tucked it behind her ear.
Nothing like seeing perfection standing effortlessly in a pair of four-inch heels to make a girl feel inadequate.
Gracie frowned. That was just silly. A person’s worth should never be based on their looks. So what if the blonde was one of “those girls,” the kind who probably never went anywhere— including gym class or a quick trip to the grocery store—without full makeup and high heels. Who rolled out of bed with nary a snarl in their hair or a pimple on their chin.
It took all kinds.
A dark-haired guy tapped the blonde on the shoulder. Something about the color of his hair, the shape of his head seemed familiar. Before Gracie could figure out if she knew him or not, the blonde turned and squealed as if he’d spent the past ten years on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company, then threw her arms around him. Hugging her back, he turned, giving Gracie a clear view of the huge smile on his face.
His handsome, lying face.
Gracie stumbled and rammed her hip into a chair, bumping it so hard against the table, the glasses on it wobbled. Her face flamed. “Sorry,” she mumbled to the cowboy, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Andrew Freeman’s head jerk up, felt his gaze on her.
The cowboy motioned for her to join him by the large window overlooking the front lawn. She went gratefully. It was better to have that bit of distance between her and where Andrew embraced the beautiful girl.
Better, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Couldn’t you find her?” the cowboy asked.
Gracie pursed her lips. He didn’t seem angry. More like he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done what he’d wanted her to do. Ivy’s words about him being willing to pay to get his way floated through Gracie’s head. Yes, he was nice. And no, he wasn’t yelling at her—like some other guests might have done. But he was obviously used to getting his way.
Maybe Ivy had been right to keep her distance.
“I found her,” Gracie admitted. “I told her you wanted to speak with her, but she declined.”
He raised his eyebrows as if that was a turn of events he’d never expected. “Excuse me?”
“She declined. It means to politely refuse an invitation. But that’s just in this case. Decline could also mean to become smaller or a gradual loss of strength, numbers, qual—”
“I know what decline means,” he said, exasperation edging his tone.
She got that a lot.
“You looked totally confused, so I wasn’t sure.”
He rubbed his forehead, bumping the edge of his hat. “Did you tell her I wanted to see her?”
Hadn’t she just said that? “Yes. I was very specific. She said you weren’t used to being turned down. That this would be a good life lesson for you. So here—” Gracie held out the money. “You can have this back.”
He flicked his gaze from her hand to her face. “That’s yours.”
“But I didn’t earn it. And it doesn’t feel right, keeping it. Plus, now that I’ve had time to think about it—” and time to let the excitement of that much money fade “—I realize it’s sort of icky, a middle-aged man—”
“Middle-aged?” He looked pained. “I need another drink.”
“Giving a teenage girl that much cash. I mean, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’d try to bribe young girls to do, well, things—if you know what I mean...”
He shut his eyes. “I wish like hell I didn’t.”
“But then, everyone said Ted Bundy didn’t look like a psycho serial killer, either, so I think it’s best if I just give it back. Trust me,” she continued when he just stood there. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”
He finally took the cash, and she hurriedly turned away before he decided he was willing to double or triple his offer. She loved Ivy, but Gracie was only human. And if the price were right, she just might be tempted to drag Ivy over here by her hair.
“Hey, Gracie,” Andrew said, having disentangled himself from the blonde. “How’s it going?”
Gracie pulled up short. Darn it. Why had Andrew approached her? Why was he talking to her?
She wanted to hate him for giving her that lopsided grin of his, especially after bestowing the same smile on another girl not two minutes ago. Wanted to hit him for looking nervous, as if he was scared she was going to start ragging on him. Or worse, ignore him.
She wished she could. But that would make him think he still had the power to hurt her. That she still cared about him.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, shooting for cool and polite but coming across as uptight and possibly deranged. She tried to work up a smile but figured it would only make things worse. “How are you?”
“Uh, fine. Good. Really good.” Andrew cleared his throat, flipped his head to get his stupid floppy dark hair out of his eyes. “I, uh, didn’t know you worked here.”
Why would he? It wasn’t as if they’d had long, involved chats about their lives. Or anything at all. They were neighbors. Not friends.
Even if she had naively believed otherwise not so very long ago.
“I started here a few months ago,” she told him.
“Cool. That’s...cool.”
Thick, uncomfortable silence surrounded them. Which was weird, since the party was still going on, the band still playing, people still talking and laughing.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He was wearing a dress shirt, too, a light blue one that brought out the color of his eyes. She tried to ignore how cute he looked, but she’d pretty much have to take after the cowboy and stick a couple of forks in her eyes for that.
“So, uh, are you doing anything for Spring Break?” he asked.
“No.”
“Oh. Me and my mom and Leo—uh, Coach Montesano. You know him, right?”
“Only by sight.” Which wasn’t a bad way to know the firefighter-slash-high-school-football-coach. He was one beautiful man. And Andrew’s mom, Penelope Denning, was dating him.
Lucky woman.
“Right. So, anyway, we’re going skiing in Colorado,” Andrew said. “Have you ever been?”
“The only places I’ve been are Pittsburgh and Erie.”
He shook his head. “I meant have you ever been skiing?”
“No.”
“It’s fun.” He took his hands out of his pockets. Put them back in again. “Maybe we could go together sometime. I could teach you.”
“Why would you want to do that? And why on earth would you think I’d ever agree to it?”
Color swept up his neck and into his cheeks. She refused to feel bad about it.
Not after what he’d done.
He shrugged. Dropped his gaze. “I thought maybe we could, you know...start hanging out again. Like before.”
She went cold all over, a deep freeze that chilled her to the bone. She couldn’t breathe through it, couldn’t move for fear that she’d shatter into a million pieces.
“You want to hang out?” she managed to say through stiff lips. “Like before? God, you must think I’m an idiot.”
She turned, but he caught her arm. “No! No,” he repeated, more softly this time as he glanced around. “Not like that. I just meant...you know. As friends.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.” Her voice was even. Dismissive. A miracle as there was a scream building inside her, one she was terrified would escape if she didn’t get away from him. “I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke.”
He flinched and dropped her arm. “Sorry. I thought...” He sighed. Ran his hand through his hair, leaving it all messy and, yes, sexy. “I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.”
She clamped her teeth together to hold back the ugly words in her throat. She didn’t owe him anything. Refused to justify her feelings or explain her thoughts.
“Andrew,” the blonde girl called. “Come here. I want you to meet my uncle.”
He gestured he’d be a minute, then turned back to Gracie. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you in school.”
She didn’t respond. Just walked away.
Of course they’d see each other. She could hardly avoid it in a school the size of Shady Grove High, especially as they shared a few classes.
But she wouldn’t acknowledge him. Wouldn’t make eye contact or speak to him.
I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.
Her fingers curled, her nails digging into her palms. She’d already forgiven him for pretending to like her, sleeping with her and then treating her like dirt. She’d had to. Hating him hadn’t made her feel better. Hadn’t stopped the pain or the tears that had come when she’d thought about how stupid she’d been. How gullible.
In the weeks after his betrayal, she’d spent countless hours imagining ways she could exact her revenge. Things she could do or say to humiliate him. To hurt him.
The way he’d hurt her.
But being angry at him had only given him even more power over her—over her thoughts and feelings. So she’d forgiven him and moved on. But she hadn’t forgotten.
And she never would.
