Home > Forked (Frenched #2)(15)

Forked (Frenched #2)(15)
Author: Melanie Harlow

“You. Trying to get me in bed after all these years.”

“I’m not trying to get you in bed, Coco. I mean, I wouldn’t kick you out of it, but I was serious about wanting to spend time with you. Look.” He put his hands on the tops of my legs and leaned into me, the bastard. “I know you don’t really forgive me for leaving you in Vegas. And maybe you’re right—maybe getting married so young was a dumb idea, maybe it would have failed anyway, but leaving the way I did was wrong, and I’ve spent the last seven years feeling horrible about it. We spent all that time together, and I don’t even know you anymore. I’d like to know you again. As a human being. As a friend. That’s all.”

It was exactly what I’d been thinking earlier, but somehow it didn’t sound plausible coming from him. “This would be a little more convincing if your hands weren’t on my thighs.”

“But I like your thighs.”

My brain struggled to move beyond the feeling of his palms through the fabric of my dress. I had the crazy feeling that if I lifted my skirt I’d see his handprints burned into my skin. “Is this how you get to know all your female friends? Invite them to move in for a weekend?”

“Not all of them. Just the hot ones.”

“Funny.” He still thinks I’m hot. Warmth flooded my veins. I was starting to get that dangerous feeling, the one I get when I really, really want something, and no matter how impractical the shoe or fattening the cheesecake or expensive the scotch, I just can’t bring myself to walk away. How easy, how delightful it would be to jump back into his bed. But then what? Could I trust myself not to fall for him again?

No way.

“The answer is no, Nick. We can have a drink, go for coffee, watch a movie or something. That is what friends do.”

He shrugged. “But that’s boring. And I really don’t have that much free time. In fact, I have to be in L.A. on Monday, then New York for a while, and after that, Chicago.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of traveling.” My chest caved a little. For some reason, the thought that he wouldn’t be around much made my heart ache—what the hell was that? And why was he still touching me? Did he know how it clouded my senses?

“Yeah, I’m looking for space to open another restaurant. And I still have to do events for Lick My Plate. I’m under contract for another year.”

“Oh.” My eyes dropped to his chest and arms, admiring the way he filled out his t-shirt, the way tattoos sleeved one arm to the wrist, the other to the elbow. Immediately I wondered about the rest of his body, how much ink he had, and what and where. If I spent the weekend with him, I could find out.

Common sense made a last-ditch effort.

You barely survived the first time he left you. What will you do the next time? Because that’s what he does— fights with merciless charm for what he wants from you until he gets it, and then does something to fuck it all up. He hasn’t changed.

But as my gaze wandered to his hands on my thighs, I thought about the ring I’d placed on his finger. About the one he’d placed on mine. And about our sad, silent ending, which stood in such ugly contrast to our relationship, which had been volatile, yes, but also vibrant and passionate and fun. We hadn’t even had a goodbye fight.

Sighing, I covered his hands with mine, feeling like this moment had been inevitable, no matter how hard I’d tried to forget him. Maybe we needed this.

Maybe this weekend would be our chance for closure, a way to put the past behind us and start over as friends.

“Nick.”

“What? Say yes.” Those huge dark eyes willed me to give in. That voice, low and sweet.

“I want to,” I hedged. “But—”

“I’ll cook for you.”

I groaned. Nick’s cooking made my clothes fall off. “You bastard. You know how I feel about your cooking. This is so unfair.”

He sat back in his chair, finally taking his hands off me. “It will be fun, I promise. And I have to go see Noni tomorrow. You can come with me.”

The name brought a smile. “Really? How is she?” Nick’s grandmother was an adorable spitfire of a woman who baked the best pies in the world, never let five minutes go by without asking, “Are you hungry, honey?” and always referred to me as Nicky’s lesbian friend when she meant Lebanese. If Noni was involved, I could definitely say yes.

“She’s great. It’s her ninetieth birthday tomorrow, and my family is having a party for her.”

“At the farm?”

“At the farm.”

“The farm where you plucked my virginity from me as easily as a ripe apple from a tree?”

His jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Easy! I had to work hard for that apple! For months I had to pet the tree, kiss the tree, sweet talk the tree—“

“You lied to the tree.”

“I did. I did lie to the tree.” He looked not at all contrite. “But I’m not sorry, because it was the most delicious apple I’ve ever had in my entire life. I’ve never had one better.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Never had one better? Not ever, not even with all the… fruit you’ve eaten with fancy reality TV people?”

He shook his head. “Not ever.”

I pursed my lips, not really sure whether I believed him, but not really sure I cared if he was lying, either. And bantering with him like this felt so natural, so good. I’d missed the playful way we used to tease each other when things were good between us. “OK, Nick. If I say yes, there are some rules for the weekend.”

   
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