skimmed the toes of her left foot across the water before continuing toward the cabin.
“How’s it feel?”
She knew that voice. That deep, smooth voice. Turning her head over her shoulder, she feigned a smile. Why in the hell had he followed her up here?
“Good,” she replied flatly.
He took slow, deliberate steps toward her. He looked almost unsure, or nervous, and she could see the edge of a storm brewing. Like heat lightning on the horizon. No powerful rain, no sounds of thunder. But you could see it . . .
She made sure to keep her eyes on his, not wanting to look away, not wanting to give that little subtle waver. She could handle this. A confrontation was knocking down her door and she would handle it like she did everything else. Like she didn’t give a shit.
“What do you want, Luke?” she demanded, hoping her words would form a barrier between their bodies, but he kept advancing toward her.
Stopping a few strides short from her, he shoved his hands back into his pockets. “That’s a pretty loaded question, don’t you think?”
“It shouldn’t be.”
He took another step. “I miss you,” he divulged, his voice almost a whisper. His head dropped between his shoulders as if he was ashamed of his admission. And as much as she gathered the little inclination that he harbored some sort of emotion toward her, she was still surprised by his words.
He missed her?
She sighed. She didn’t want to go there . . .
“You’re the one who ended things, Luke. Not me.” He may have said the words first, but she knew it was only a matter of time until she would’ve ended the relationship herself. She couldn’t tell him that though. The way he’d done it—the way he’d picked a fight and made her out to be the bad guy—that was just wrong. Trevor was right, she was bitter.
Looking back up at her, he scrubbed his hands over his face a few times. When he pulled his hands away, his mouth was pulled down and his eyebrows were gathered in—a flash of regret flickering in the specks of his eyes. “I know, and I made a mistake.”
For some reason his words ignited a spark in her chest, like a lighter running out of fluid—flickering—just begging to flame.
Her hands found their way to her hips and the thin fabric of her dress pressed even closer to her skin. “You were an asshole.” Which was an understatement. When he told her he thought he was falling in love with her, it was sweet—scary as hell—but sweet. She was flattered. No man she’d dated had ever told her that before. But she couldn’t say it back. She wasn’t going to lie . . .
Luke had been crushed, but understanding. He’d told her to take her time. But that was the thing, she didn’t think time would change anything.
He wasn’t too happy about that answer.
It was strange for a man to play the wounded-heart role. And what was even stranger was when Luke flipped his switch. She believed his exact words as he stood up and walked out of her apartment were, “I’m fucking done with this. I’m done with you.”
Really? Luke got his balls twisted because a woman didn’t drop to her knees and profess her undying love for him?
That little spark had caught a flame . . .
If she took herself out of the situation and looked from the outside in, sure, she got it. She could tell that his ego was shattered and he felt humiliated and hurt. She hated that she hurt him.
But he’d acted like a prick. And he had made sure to steer clear of her ever since that night. Sure, they would run into each other occasionally if they were with Meagan and Reed, but that was as far as their communication went. Now, here they were eight months later and he wanted to tell her he missed her?
“Eva—”
“Luke, don’t,” she pleaded. She’d had this conversation with him when they split up. He was in, and she wasn’t. It wasn’t a road they needed to travel down again.
He took another step. “Can we talk?” he lilted, the hopeful
Suzanne Woods Fisher, Mary Ann Kinsinger