Lou watched us, his head moving from side to side like a spectator’s at the French Open. “And then?”
We stared at each other a moment longer, each of us reliving the pain and pleasure of that insane weekend. What could we say? No matter what, Nick couldn’t deny that he was the one who’d been unfaithful that spring—the act of betrayal that started the whole chain of crazy events. And in a whiskey- tears-and-sex-filled craze, I’d forgiven him, even married him—but then he’d abandoned me in that hotel room. No apology could make up for the hurt, and I sure as hell hadn’t wanted to listen to any explanation.
For God’s sake, why should I listen to him say that he didn’t love me enough to stay?
With my parents’ help, I’d quietly taken the necessary steps to divorce him quickly and left for
Paris. The three of us agreed it to keep it quiet; I wasn’t even sure my grandmother knew.
Later that year I’d had the small tattoo of his name and our wedding date on my left shoulder blade made into a swallow taking flight. Briefly I wondered what he’d done with the large tattoo of my name he’d had inked on his chest.
It doesn’t matter now.
“And then he left,” I said. Deep breath. “But I forgive him now.” The lie rolled off my tongue with surprising ease, especially for me. I’d never forgive him, of course. Did it show on my face?
Nick cocked his head, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Why?”
“Wh-what do you mean, why?” I blustered. “You asked my forgiveness and I’m giving it.”
“I asked for it then. You didn’t want to give it, and now you do. There must be a reason you’re here after all this time.” The mischief was back in his cocky Elvis half-grin, and I felt like punching him. But instead I saw the opening and took it.
“If you must know, there is.”
“I must know.”
“Me too,” said Lou, raising his hand for the bartender to bring him another beer.
“Fine.” I glared at both of them before focusing my full attention on Nick. “I need a favor.”
His grin widened. “Sexual, I hope.”
“No.” I sat taller, ignoring the wickedly pleasant sensation between my legs at the thought of a sexual favor from Nick. “A cooking favor, actually.”
“A cooking favor? Hmm. Decidedly less exciting, but I’m intrigued nonetheless. Tell you what, cupcake.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go down the street for a drink at Two James. You can ask for your favor, I can stare at your face—and maybe your other circumstances—we can have some whiskey for old times’ sake, and maybe we can work something out.”
Oh fuck. I knew what I’d feel like working out after “whiskey for old times’ sake” with Nick Lupo, and it had nothing to do with cooking. Could I be trusted to stick to the plan? I looked at his mouth, the first mouth I’d let anywhere near the parts of my body that were warming and tightening up right now. How many nights had I dreamed of those firm, full lips on my skin, just one more time? How many fantasies started and ended with that mouth on mine? How many orgasms had I given myself with his body, his voice, his name in my head? Too many to count, and I’d probably do it again tonight.
Goddammit, he still got to me.
My mouth opened, and my mantra escaped. “I’m over you. And I can handle this.”
Nick burst out laughing, his mouth wide, head thrown back, and my entire body warmed. I’d forgotten how much I loved making him laugh. “Ah, God. I’ve missed you,” he said, tapping my leg. “Come on, let’s go.”
I can handle this, I repeated, grabbing my purse and scooting quickly toward the door so he wouldn’t be tempted to guide me with a hand on my back. The first part of my mantra was becoming fainter in my brain.
Channeling my inner Mia, praying she existed somewhere in there, I made some rules for myself. No sitting too close, no touching, and no overdoing it on the memories or the whiskey.
When we reached the door, Nick moved ahead of me to open it, and I glided by him, catching his scent on the warm air that greeted me. It was so familiar— musky and masculine but summery, like fresh-cut grass, with a hint of something savory too, like maybe he’d been chopping herbs in the kitchen earlier. Pretty soon I’d add whiskey to the mix, and the combination might be lethal.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” His lips curved into a slow, sexy smile and I added a few more rules to the list.
No smelling him, no looking at his mouth, and absolutely no kissing.
Great. At this point I was going to have to ask the bartender at Two James for a blindfold, a nose plug, and a muzzle along with my whiskey. And I’d have to sit on my hands until my senses were dulled.
Guess I’d make that first shot a double.
To distract myself from the fact that Nick Lupo was walking beside me, that we were actually walking somewhere together after all these years, I began counting the steps it took to get to Two James. This is something Mia taught me to do when I really, really want to buy something but I know I don’t have the money. I count the steps it takes me to leave the store, turn a corner, put it out of my sight. Usually it works, but today the strategy was doomed to fail since the object of my desire was following me. Handbags, hot tubs, and high heels just don’t do that.
But I tried. That counts, right?
Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. Keeping my eyes down, I watched our shoes hit the cement. Nick’s black suede oxfords with bright blue laces seemed to move in slow motion compared to my hurried, anxious steps, and I remembered how he was never the sort of person to rush. It used to drive me crazy, especially when we were running late. We would bicker about it, and one time we got into this insane philosophical discussion about time, and he accused me of always looking at it as running down, like sand in an hourglass. Finite, and slipping away from me.