STAR-CROSSED SUMMER Excerpt
“Since when are you just okay with all this?”
He blinks. “With all what?”
I groan, throwing up my hands in exasperation. “This! We’ve successfully avoided each other and everything Lost Letter–related for a decade, and now what, it’s all just no big deal to you?”
The muscle in his jaw flexes, his gaze hardening, and it’s that intimidating, arresting movie star stare he’s so famous for. “Let’s just clear something up right now: I never avoided you. You avoided me. It was never my choice. I gave you the space you clearly wanted and stayed out of your way to respect your wishes.” His eyes sharpen as he tilts his head. “Which were never all that clear, by the way.”
“Don’t go there,” I say, my heart hammering, that old familiar panic filling my chest and making it hard to breathe. “Just don’t.”
“Don’t what? Talk about it? Jesus, Scar, it’s been ten years. Don’t you think it’s time?”
No. It will never be time.
“I’ve moved on. And I have no desire to dredge up the past.” I push my chair out with a scrape and get to my feet, telegraphing that this conversation is over.
But he doesn’t get the memo. “You disappeared from that hotel room and never spoke to me again. Was I supposed to understand why? I’m not a mind reader, Scarlett. I’ve been in the dark about this for a decade. Don’t you think I deserve some answers?”
He’s breathing heavier now, voice raised, and it would be satisfying that my agitation’s finally worn off on him if I wasn’t so terrified of the turn this conversation has taken.
“As a matter of fact, no, I don’t think so. And I don’t remember signing up for a therapy session.” I turn on my heel and stalk across the deck, yanking open the sliding glass door. “It’s time for you to go.”
Ryder stares at me a moment before barking a disbelieving laugh, then slaps his hands on his thighs and pushes to standing. “Same old Scarlett,” he says, shaking his head as he strides across the deck toward me. “You may have moved on, but you haven’t changed.” He stops in front of me, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “When things get tough, you run.”
“I’m the one who hasn’t changed, huh? Yet here you are, showing up without warning, deliberately keeping me off balance and messing with my head every chance you get. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
“Is that the story you tell yourself? That I’m the reason for all this?” He looks genuinely incredulous. “If that’s the case, then you’re not just lying to me, you’re lying to yourself.”
I let out a brittle laugh, hoping he can’t see how much his words have rattled me. “So not only are you part of the therapy session, you’re the therapist now, too.”
He’s undeterred by my sarcasm, his eyes bright with interest. In fact, the look on his face is freaking me out. He’s like a detective who’s caught the scent of something suspicious, and if he just keeps pulling the right thread and connects enough dots, the picture will become clear. “What are you so afraid of?”
He says it more to himself than to me, yet his eyes bore into mine, like if he just stares hard enough, he’ll be able to extract the information he’s looking for. We’re skating way too close to the truth, and I need this conversation to end.
“Look, based on how well this has gone, we clearly need to set some ground rules for the next week. How about we just agree to give each other some space, okay? You stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you, and in a few days we can go our separate ways and pretend this whole thing never happened.”
For a long moment he continues to stare, squinting at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. He’s quiet so long, I’m about to repeat myself before he finally delivers a succinct: “No.”
No? “Excuse me?”
“No, I don’t think I will.” He leans in. “Stay away from you, that is.” He says it like we’re discussing a business transaction.
I gape at him. “You realize you sound like a stalker, right? And I already have plenty of those sending me their toenail clippings, thanks.”
“I’ve done a damn good job staying away from you,” he continues like I haven’t spoken. “Too good a job, as it turns out.” He unleashes a slow-building smile, and it does more to unnerve me than if he’d shouted in my face. “I made a mistake back then, letting things lie. I let you walk away without so much as an explanation, and I won’t make that same mistake twice.”
I should win an Oscar for the way I’m managing to play it cool, but I’m not sure how much longer I can pull it off. This is a five-alarm fire. “Well, good luck on your little crusade.” I sweep my arm toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint.
He takes a deliberate step closer to me instead. “You know, I might be a little rusty, but I still know when I’ve gotten under your skin. You seem to forget that I can see right through this whole act. Pretend all you want, but this week is my chance to get answers to the questions I’ve had for ten years, and I don’t plan on wasting it.”
I have a lot of practice schooling my face into expressions I don’t truly feel, but it takes every ounce of determination to don an icy, flat mask when the distress welling inside me threatens to suffocate me. “Well, you better get started, then. Back at your own house.” I shoo him toward the door.
“I can see you’re not convinced that I’ll follow through, so you know what? As a good faith gesture, I’ll go first.” He leans in again, dropping his voice, and my heart stutters to a stop, then races forward as if to catch up. He’s so close that I’m able to pick up the scent of his skin, Irish Spring and something else, something different, and the sense memory it evokes is a physical ache. “I’ve been keeping a secret, too.”
“Oh please,” I scoff, making my tone bored—but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone, because his grin only grows wider, that cocky smirk stretching clear across his face.
“You asked me earlier the real reason I agreed to do this. Well, you were right. I did have ulterior motives.”
I’m the one crossing my arms now, rolling my eyes, tapping my foot. If I was wearing a watch, I’d check it.
“It was really just a matter of timing.”
He’s purposely drawing this out, aware that I’m hanging on to his every word, but I play my part and spin my finger in a circle to signify Get on with it.
He pauses, stretching the moment, letting his gaze flick down to my mouth and linger there . . . and like muscle memory, my body starts to sway toward him like a magnet searching for steel, so strong is the pull he still has over me. He licks his lips, and I swear I feel mine tingle, as if his tongue had actually passed over my own.
“I wanted to see you.” His eyes sear through me. “I knew you’d come, and I wanted to see you.”
