by Alexis James
Good God, Amita. Pull your head out of your ass … pronto!
Marco’s car is idling in the valet area as I step out of the hotel and move down the steps. Mia is in the passenger seat, talking animatedly and waving her hands around. When I step up to her window she grins, throwing open the door and stepping out to pull me into a hug.
“Happy birthday, sister!”
Over her shoulder I can see Marco sitting there, his left hand looped over the steering wheel, looking drop dead freaking gorgeous in a steel gray suit, crisp white shirt, and lavender tie. He grins at me as Mia hops into the back seat, blue-green eyes giving me the once-over while I settle in and secure my seatbelt.
“Happy birthday, sweet cheeks,” he drawls, eyes drifting down to my shoes. I practically laugh out loud at the look that crosses his face: a mixture of shock and disbelief and a good healthy dose of lust.
His jaw ticks in what I assume is frustration, then he puts the car in gear and quickly pulls out onto the street. Mia continues to chatter, giving me the latest update on Papa Moran and telling both of us about a business trip she and Cruz are taking next week to New Orleans. I’m only half-listening, too busy watching those beautiful hands of his grip the stick shift. It’s surreal sitting here next to him after all this time. Slightly unnerving too. Although we have seen one another a few times, this is our first official step down our long road back to one another.
Our trip takes us to the burger place he and I used to frequent, and after assisting us out of the car, he walks slightly behind Mia and me as we venture into the restaurant. I can feel his eyes on me, the searing touch that lights me up from the inside out, and by the time we’re seated at a table near the window, I wonder if they’d notice me starting to fan myself.
The conversation is stilted and awkward, even though Mia does her best to keep things light. Marco and I exchange a few looks with one another, but mostly we both sit there like two dummies, grunting out a response and nodding occasionally.
We place our orders and while we wait, we sip on tall glasses of beer and spend a good amount of time commenting on the ocean, the weather, and the overall sense of the restaurant. The entire atmosphere between us is off—weird and not at all like any number of times we’ve all been together. I do have to ask myself have we both changed so much that we’ve somehow lost the basic familiarity we once took for granted?
Finally Mia tosses down her napkin and snaps, “Knock it off, you two. You guys are friends. Lighten up a little.” She eyes us intently when neither of us says a word. “For goodness sake, this is stupid. How are you ever going to get back together if you can’t even talk to one another?”
“It’s his fault.” I grump shooting Marco a wayward look.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Yeah, babe, I’m well aware of how I fucked things up with you. You don’t need to remind me.”
Trying not to pat myself on the back, I instead go for the flirt-slash-tease that’s destined to ruffle his oh so shiny feathers. “No, it’s not that.” I let out a sigh. “It’s the suit.”
“My suit?” he looks down at his clothes. “What’s wrong with my suit?”
I sigh again. “Nothing. Everything.”
He looks at me like I’ve all of sudden sprouted wings or something. “Come again?”
This time when I sigh, it comes out sounding more like an irritated huff. “You look too damn good in that suit.”
Marco’s face lights in a shit-eating grin and his eyes slide right to my boobs. “Babe, you don’t have to tell me. I know I look good.” His gaze drops lower … to the strappy sandal on my bouncing foot. “Now you, sweet cheeks, you look too damn hot.” He winks at me playfully.
The ice broken, Mia rolls her eyes and makes a sound in her throat like she’s hurling. “Ugh, you guys are disgusting. Get over yourselves. You’ve seen one another naked a bunch of times.”
Marco chuckles and sits back in his chair, one shiny loafer propped on the opposing knee. “Don’t give me shit, little girl. I can tell all kinds of stories about you and my brother and what you do behind closed office doors when you’re supposed to be working.”
Mia’s face blanches then turns as red as a tomato. “This isn’t about me.”
The waitress picks the perfect time to drop off our food and just like that first time we ate here, I’m moaning and rolling my eyes at how good the burger is.
Mia looks at me like I’ve officially lost my marbles, but Marco just bursts out laughing and states, “She wants to ask the burger to join her in bed.”
The laugh we share over that fond memory is exactly what we need to put us both at ease. For the next thirty minutes or so, the three of us talk like the good friends we are—not about anything of substance, but as friends do, hopping from one subject to the other and laughing about all of the little things.
We walk slowly out to the car after lunch, just as fat and happy as we were that first time he brought me here. Once we ladies are buckled in, Marco pops the trunk, digs around for something, then slides behind the wheel. In his hand is a huge bouquet of flowers, a mix of bright florals and long-stemmed orange roses, which he places gently on my lap. While I’m gushing my thank yous and shoving my nose in the flowers, he pulls a small box from the console and hands it over.
“Happy birthday.” Our eyes meet. “I’m so glad you agreed to come out with me today.”
“Me too.” With shaky fingers, I slowly pull the red ribbon off the box and gently peel the edges of the silver paper to reveal a dark blue box underneath. In that box is another blue box, this one covered in felt. My heart is racing as I lift the small lid, revealing the exquisite necklace lying underneath. On the delicate silver chain hangs a silver heart. Wrapped around that heart is another heart, this one covered in diamonds, its edges interwoven with the other simpler heart.
Just like our hearts have been intertwined since we first met.
“Oh my gosh, this is … this is so beautiful.”
“You really like it?” he asks, for once not the cocky man I know him to be, but rather the insecure man he’s become since hurting me.
Our eyes lock and I lean across the console, whispering, “I really, really do. Thank you.” I press my lips against his cheek, giving myself a brief moment to breathe in the sweet scent of his cologne from his skin. Sitting back, I extract the necklace from the box and hand it to him. “Would you fasten it for me?” He nods and somehow manages to lock the clasp without touching me at all. Sitting back in our seats, my fingers drift to the pendant, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.
We’re silent on the drive back to my hotel, and after a brief hug with Mia, I step up to Marco. “Thank you for everything. This was the best birthday.”
He smiles down at me. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You deserve to be celebrated.”
Determined not to cry, or throw myself in his arms, I grip the flowers tightly and take a step back, giving us each some breathing room. “That’s a sweet thing to say.” Another step, and then another, but our eyes are locked together and he’s making no move to leave. “I’ll be talking to you soon.”
“You can count on it.” He watches me as I walk backwards, looking away only when I turn to move up the steps. Once I’m at the doorway, I turn around once more and he waves goodbye before sliding behind the wheel and pulling out onto the street.
I’m lost in a fog as I meander to my office. If I didn’t know better, I’d venture to say that Mr. Moran is trying to romance me. And damn if it doesn’t feel good. There was nothing particularly romantic about our relationship before, mostly because we spent a lot of time having fun—and also having a whole lot of sex, but he’s changed in the months since our breakup. Sure, he’s still cocky and inappropriate, but there’s a sweet, romantic side that he’s just now willing to show me. A side he’s just now discovering himself.
Giddy with happiness, I plop down behind my desk and set the flowers aside, shooting Lori a content smile when she sashays into the room and does a
double take. “Oh my. Looks like you had a nice lunch.” Fingering the petals, she lifts a brow. “Boyfriend or admirer?”
Shrugging, I reply. “Neither. Good friend.”
She scoffs. “Friends don’t spend a couple of hundred bucks on flowers, my dear.”
I grin up at her. “He also gave me this necklace.”
She gasps and oohs and aahs in all the right places then perches one slim hip on the edge of my desk and folds her hands in her lap. “This man is a keeper.” She smirks. “Is he good looking?”
Rolling my eyes, I slump back in my chair. “Too good looking.”
“Is it serious?”
I shrug, looking away. I wish I could tell her that yes it is, for me at least. It’s more than serious. It’s a lifetime thing. “Maybe.”
Getting to her feet, she says, “Well, honey, I wish you luck.”
“Thanks. I need it.”
Only I am aware that it will take more than luck for Marco and me to find common ground, where his need for individuality and my need for commitment meet in the middle. We will probably never be a great love story like Mia and Cruz, but we can certainly be something. Something more than friends, something far more serious than we’ve ever been.
Patience is not one of my virtues.
Neither is tact.
In the weeks since the birthday lunch with Amita, I’ve had to draw from both of the nonexistent virtues and put both into play time and time again. I still flirt with her, as much as one can do when exchanging texts. We’ve spoken a few times directly, but I always feel like I’m thinking about what I should or should not say instead of simply enjoying the conversation.
Don’t get me wrong, any amount of time I spend with Amita, whether texting or talking, is a good thing, but in the weeks since our lunch we’ve done very little in the getting-back-together arena. I’m beginning to think maybe all she wants from me is friendship. We were great friends, and I’m the first to admit that I value that friendship more than most things in my life, but I can’t just be her friend again. Not after all we shared. The good and the bad. I can’t sit across the table from her and not want to hold her hand or kiss her. I can’t sit back and watch her be with other men like I did when she was with Vic. I can no longer look at her and see my good buddy, since she’s become so much more than that to me.
The challenge for me now is to move us forward, but keep things simple and refrain from pushing her at all. Trust is something that’s going to take time. I don’t blame her one bit for being cautious, but I do wonder if we’re ever going to be able to get back to where we were.
Glancing at the calendar, I see that it’s a week until Christmas, which further throws a freaking huge wrench in all this going slow crap. The thought of her being alone on yet another holiday pisses me off. If anyone should be alone, it should me. I’m sure I could enlist Mia’s help in it all, but there’s no way in hell Amita is going to show up out of the blue, not unless I grease the wheels.
Without pause, I pull up her contact info and dial. It rings twice and then her soft voice greets me. “Hey. This is a nice surprise.”
Smiling, I shove back from my desk and get to my feet. “How are you today, sweet cheeks?”
She snickers. “I’m okay. Working. And you?”
I glance at my desk, where unfinished assignments are piling up because I can’t seem to concentrate on anything except her. “Same. Hey, I was wondering if we could meet for lunch this weekend.” Good job, Moran, keep it simple, keep it light.
“Uh, sure. I’m busy with Mia on Saturday, so is Sunday okay?”
“That’s great.” I’ll miss my mama’s home cooked meal, but hey, sacrifices have to be made. “Can I pick you up?” Never before would I have asked. It was always assumed.
“Sure. How’s one?”
“Great. See ya then.” I disconnect the call, toss the phone aside, and let my gaze wander to the Miami skyline.
I know I should feel good about the fact that she agreed to see me, but all it does is remind me of how far apart we’ve grown. I need to sit with her and talk, really talk. No more avoiding subjects or beating around the bush or worrying about what I should and shouldn’t say. I need to tell her everything, but I can’t. Not yet. Throwing out romantic promises now will just look desperate. Even though I am exactly that, I have to keep my desperation to myself.
Three days later I’m driving toward her apartment and starting to doubt my own resolve. This woman, who blasted into my life a year ago, has somehow turned me into someone I don’t recognize. Every word, every decision, every thought is about her now, and what I’ve allowed to happen with our so-called relationship. I find it ironic that before her I’d never give a woman any thought. Just goes to show how much she’s changed me—or how much I’ve changed for her because of how I feel.
Pulling up to the curb, I debate whether or not to go up to her place then immediately disregard the idea. Back when we were just friends, I’d think nothing of shooting her a text to let her know I’m here. Since that’s technically what we are now, I quickly send one off then sit back and tap my fingers on the steering wheel while I wait. Less than a minute later she responds with a smiley face.
My choice of music today was something I gave a lot of thought to. She and I used to have a lot of fun together, jamming out to tunes while we drove around. I’d love to greet her with our old standby, the one we danced to long ago on my balcony, but that feels just a bit too desperate.
So I throw in Mary J, scroll to the song I’ve been listening to ad nauseam for days now, and hit play. Hopefully she won’t think I’m trying too hard, but even if she does at least she’ll know how consumed I am with her. That can’t be a bad thing, can it?
She greets me with a bright smile as she throws open the passenger door and slides in. “Hey, hot stuff.”
I grin at her and give her my typical once over, which is my way of saying I check out her boobs and that stellar ass. “Hey, sweet cheeks.”
Once she’s buckled in, I pull out onto the street and head toward the beach, to this cool little café I found that I knew she’d like. We’re both silent while we drive, listening to the music with the wind from the open windows blowing our hair.
She taps her nails on the door handle to the beat of the music, occasionally singing along, and when we pull into the parking lot, she turns to me with a wide grin. “I’ve heard about this place.”
“You’ll like it.”
I request a table outside and once we’re seated, the weirdness starts to settle in just like it did the day I took her out for her birthday. It annoys the crap out of me that we can’t just talk like we used to and that there are all these walls between us. From the way she’s fidgeting in her chair and biting her lip, I’d say she’s feeling the same way.
“What are we doing?”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
Pointing to her, then myself, I reply, “This. Us. What are we doing? We hardly talk, and when we do it’s weird. When we’re together, it’s even weirder.” Leaning forward, I grasp her hand in mine. “I miss you. I miss us. I miss the way we could say anything to each other and we never had to worry about the other person taking off or getting pissed.” Watching the color slide off her face, I release my grip on her hand and turn my attention elsewhere. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t push and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Tense silence settles over us, and once we’ve given our orders to the waitress, Amita finally speaks. “I miss you too. I miss us more. But I don’t think you understand how hurt I was. How hurt I still am.”
Our eyes meet. “Then make me understand. Tell me what you went through.”
She rolls her eyes and leans her chin on her hand. “I was numb. Just numb, for days after you walked out. And then I started wallowing.” Her eyes narrow. “I hate people who wallow and feel sorry for themselves and that’s exactly what I was doing.”
“I did a good amount of wallowing
as well.”
She gives me a suspicious look that I interpret as “why the hell were you upset when you’re the one that walked away” but thankfully doesn’t comment on my statement. “Bet you didn’t spend your time singing Phantom of the Opera songs.”
Wrinkling my nose, I shoot her a quizzical look. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Oh yeah. It was ugly. Very, very ugly.” Her eyes stray to the street in front of us and the beach beyond. “But then I rebounded and my fascination turned to everything Netflix. I’ve binge-watched constantly for weeks now.”
Wincing, I reply, “Man, that sucks.”
She looks over at me from under her lashes. “Want to know what else sucks?” I nod and watch her face flush. “Getting so drunk that you proposition your best friend’s husband for a threesome.”
My stomach clenches. “Seriously?”
“Yep. Not one of my prouder moments.” She smirks. “It was the night I saw you at their house. I might have had a little bit too much wine and Cruz had to put me to bed.”
Lucky guy, I think to myself. “What did he say?”
She shrugs. “You know Cruz, he’s a good guy. He thanked me for my offer and declined. Then he had to watch me get all emotional. There’s nothing uglier than a drunk, crying woman.”
Except a drunk, crying man. “Babe, I doubt there was anything ugly about it. I’m just glad he was there for you.” I have every intention of speaking to him about her offer, just in case he’s thinking about reconsidering.
Her eyes drift away again and her voice is practically a whisper when she speaks. “It’s just … he reminds me of you. It was hard to look at him and not think about you. Especially when all I’d been doing was trying not to think about you.”
My heart clenches painfully, but I shove aside the hurt and attempt for some levity. “I’m much better looking than my older brother.”
Her smile widens and some of the tension fades. “Well, of course you are.”