“Because it’s too easy with you,” she says.
“What?” I furrow my brow. “That makes no sense. What’s too easy?”
“Talking to you. Chatting. It’s all too easy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It might be a bad thing,” she says, her tone soft.
“We were always good at talking, Delaney.”
“I know,” she says softly, but with a hint of longing I latch onto.
“We were good at a lot of things,” I say, low and husky. “Remember that time in the library?”
“Which one?” Her tone turns a little breathy, and that sound encourages me. We’re not at no after all, and I’ve got to keep trying.
“Every time,” I say, my mind awash in a deliciously dirty image of her backed up against the shelves, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in an O, her hair wild. She bit my neck to muffle the noise as she came hard. “But especially that afternoon when you wore that little red skirt, and we got to know exactly how sturdy the books on the French Revolution were.”
A small whimper seems to escape her. But then, just as quickly, she seems to reel it in, cloaking her weak moment with a quip and a light laugh. “The barricades of books all came tumbling down.” Her voice shifts to pragmatic. “But still, I’m not sure—”
I’m not resting my case so easily. I’ve got plenty of evidence to present to her.
“How about the afternoon in the English lecture hall? The professor left, and it was just you and me in the back row. We loved being sneaky, loved those stolen moments,” I say, and a flash of images pops before my eyes. Delaney’s hand slipping inside my jeans, those wild eyes lit with desire, her mouth finding my ear, begging to do it right then and there. “We were damn good at all of that, too.”
“Tyler,” she says with a sigh. “Why are you doing this? We both know we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That’s not up for debate. We don’t need to go tripping back in time.”
“Why am I doing this?” I repeat. “Because I know we were good together. But do you know we were good together?” I turn the question back to her, like the counselor I am.
She relents a touch. “Yes, we were good together.”
“Then have a drink with me.”
“Why? For old time’s sake?” Her tone is softer now, inviting. Maybe I’ve knocked a brick free from her wall.
This is as much of an opening as I’m going to get, so I grab hold of it. “For old times and new times. C’mon. Say yes. You know you want to.”
She scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”
I furrow my brow, wondering what I’d said. “No. I’m deadly serious.”
“You know you want to? You are un-freaking-believable,” she says with a laugh, but not the good kind of laugh.
I groan, dropping my forehead into my palm. Just when I thought I was getting close with her. “Sure sounded like you wanted to,” I mumble.
She huffs. “Maybe I did. But then you act all cocky and pushy, saying you know what I want.”
“I’m not being cocky.”
“You were. You always were so sure of yourself. As if I can’t possibly have any other opinion than wanting to have a drink with you.”
“You are more than welcome to have another opinion. But I’m not going to apologize for wanting that opinion to be yes. I want to see you. How hard is that to understand?”
“We don’t always get what we want, Tyler. How hard is that to understand?”
“It’s not hard. And even if you’re pissed at me, I still want you to say yes.”
“Why? So you can win this one, too? Is this your latest debate with me? Do you think I’ll say yes if you remind me how good we were in bed? That you rocked my world in the sheets, and in the stacks, and in the back row of English class? Did you think you’d just strip for me and all my brain cells would evaporate when you showed me your magic cock?”
“No. But would that work?”
She laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s a “you’re ridiculous” snort, or a “just try me” chuckle. “I bet you’d like to know.” Then she’s no longer laughing. Instead, she sighs, and her words are laced with sadness. “You haven’t even said you were sorry for the way you hurt me. We had plans, Tyler. Plans. You upended all of that. Every last thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, desperately earnest. “I swear, I’m sorry.”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Maybe you should have said that eight years ago.”
“Maybe I should have. But maybe if you see me in person I can say it properly, and you’ll believe it.”
“I’m not really sure why you think saying it properly is the key.” She tosses my words back at me. “Meaning it is what matters.”
Later, I meet Simon for a drink at Speakeasy. This time, I don’t serve up the situation with my usual bravado. I simply tell him what went down. He’s smart, and he also has a reputation for being upfront and honest. He has a young daughter, and he recently fell in love with his daughter’s nanny. She’s madly in love with him, too. If anyone knows women, it’s this guy.
“Give me your advice. What do I do?”
He takes a drink of his beer then sets it down. “She’s telling you that you need a grand gesture to get back in the game.”