“I’ll book into a hotel or a guesthouse. Or maybe someone will offer to let me sleep on their couch.” I give my eyebrows what I hope is a tempting but slightly comic wiggle.
“Not a chance.”
Fuck, even her snort gets me. “I guess there’s always Jenner’s couch,” I add. “I reckon he’ll let me crash at his place.” Not that I have any intention of asking him because I fully intend for her to be all in by then. So I’ll be in her bed, right? Big spoon to her smaller one.
“On your head be it,” she answers airily.
“To be fair, I don’t think it’s my head he’s interested in.”
“He’s interested in one of then,” she says, turning all cute and sassy. Her lips quirk with a mischievous smile. “Jenner takes his men like he takes his coffee.”
“You mean in his mouth?”
“You could always ask him.”
“I’ll just get myself some undies with a lock and key.”
“He’d probably love that.” Swiping up her glass, she turns to look out of the dark window as though reminding herself we’re not to be friends.
“He must be a fan of a challenge,” I murmur, staring at the profile of my own personal challenge. My quest for everything. She’s mesmerising from every angle, from the elegant column of her neck, to the sweep of her dark lashes, and the cute upturn at the end of her nose.
She turns back, her brows lifting in agreement. She tips her glass to her lips and I watch as she tries to master a whole-body shudder. She doesn’t quite manage it. The tannins, see?
“Enjoying your wine?”
“It’s fine. Nice.” She flicks her shoulder, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “It hit the spot, anyway.”
“What spot were you aiming for?” The words hit the air in an intentional purr, because, fuck me, I want to taste those lips. Pull her tongue into my mouth and suck the terrible wine from it. And we might be thinking the same things the way her midnight dark eyes run over me. Not like she’s considering, more like she’s imagining. Sadly, she seems to snap back to herself, and her attention flicks down to where I’m lightly stroking her knuckles with my thumb. She quickly puts a stop to that, her tone turning brusque. “What brought you to Mookatil?”
I take a deep breath because it feels like a bit of truth wouldn’t go amiss. “I’ve made a point of spending time in Oregon almost every year since Vegas.”
“Yeah?” While enthusiasm would’ve been nice, I do understand her cautious tone.
“For the last six or seven years, at least.” Her expression morphs slowly as the penny drops. “Crazy, I know. I don’t even think I considered it as looking for a Kennedy-sized needle in a haystack as waiting for fate to intervene. And I was ever hopeful she would. Not that I imagined for one minute the experience would be as bittersweet as it has been.” Her shoulders hunch, her posture turning inward. For a minute, I think she might cry, and as I’m not allowed to hold her hand, I carry on with the truth. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you. I’m so fucking annoyed with myself that I didn’t try harder that morning to make sure this wouldn’t happen, that we wouldn’t lose each other.
“No, please don’t,” she says. She makes as though to reach out, the movement fleeting, snatched back again. She’s so closed off, and that makes me so fucking sad for her. “You had other things to think about that morning.”
“You can’t absolve me of the guilt I deserve to feel. But that night, our night together was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I was sure it was meant to be. I meant what I said when I left. I wasn’t saying goodbye because I was coming back. And I have, every fucking year. I should’ve known when I closed the hotel door that I’d fucked up. I actually wanted to be sick.”
“Of course you did. You’d just had bad news from home.” This time, she does take my hand, and I’m so grateful for it.
“Bad news that turned out to be lies.” I huff out an unhappy laugh. The sick feeling was more about leaving and less like a premonition because I really had no idea what was coming. “My dad was already dead. My family decided there was nothing to be gained from telling me over the phone. By the time I’d gotten there and the enormity of the news had sunk in, I’d called you, but I’d already left you too long.”
“No, that’s not true,” she says quietly and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Your phone was a piece of shit. I should’ve paid that more attention. I should’ve taken more than your phone number, should’ve done more than jotted my details on a piece of hotel notepaper. And that’s why I spend time in Oregon every year. Because I fucked up.” What I fail to say is that I’ve never looked harder than that, afraid of what I might find. I let her down. It’s what I do. Only this time, it was the most spectacular failure of my life.