Page 27 of Never Have I Ever

“True,” I say, pushing the bag across the counter toward him. “A dish best served cold.” Can’t blame me for trying for humor. Selfishly, I’d love to see his smile that I got a sample of in the truck.

He looks down, and even though the only light is the moonlight sneaking in, I can see his grin. Although he is trying his best not to share it with me. Is a restrained smile his version of an olive branch? “Make sure the heat’s on, or you won’t survive the night out there.” Forget the smile. I’m going with the caring gesture he just offered.

His moods are whiplash-inducing, and I don’t want to trigger him back to the other side of the pendulum. It might be best to accept the win he said I won earlier, but I still have no clue what he meant, or I would.

“I will.” I still can’t force myself to leave, though.

The island divides us, but something bigger than what I’m aware of is taking up the space. He’s a big guy, at least six-three if not more based on hanging around Marina’s brothers so much growing up. So it could be just him, but I don’t think that’s it.

He remains where he is at the entrance to the hallway. He’s not wearing the flannel shirt he had hugging his broad shoulders, but the T-shirt and jeans are still in place. And he’s stripped his socks off, and his hair sticks up all over the place. I’ve seen him push his hand through it, but he went to battle this time. Poor sexy, messed-up hair. God, I’d love to run my fingers through it.

I look at the counter, knowing I shouldn’t have thoughts like that about Jerkface. Yet I just did. I should know better than to fall for the bad boy, but it’s easy to do when they look like he does.

Since I’m not in a place in my life where I’m choosing to redeem an asshole, I thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to go.”

A stare that holds a thousand emotions wrapped in one devastatingly dark package is all I’m gifted for the voyage toward the door. Even I can’t stand the heat in this kitchen any longer and step around the island. One step in front of the other is torture when you want someone to ask you to stay.

Why do I?

I was almost killed because of him.

He teased me about bears. Like who uses bear snark in the middle of the woods? I roll my eyes and pick up the pace. It would be stupid for me to stay anyway. I think it’s natural to assume a woman in his past has burned him. No one is mean like he is for no reason.

I grab the handle and am about to tug it open when he asks, “You know where the thermostat is, right?”

That's not exactly how I saw it playing out in my head, but he’s cracked the door open. Over my shoulder, our eyes meet once more, and I reply, “I do.”

His lips part, and the blue of his eyes is briefly shadowed. He’s not someone who hides his emotions. They play out right there on his face for everyone to see. There’s something so real about him, but I still can’t put my finger on why he feels familiar.

“I heard you say that in my head a million times, but it never sounded so sweet.”

“What do you mean?”

His expression hardens, a tic in his jaw returning before he sucks in a breath. “It was in another lifetime. Forget it.” He goes for the bag, and as the crinkling fills the air, I release the handle, too stunned to move after that admission.

How can I leave when that’s been put out into the universe?

As if I can forget he said them . . .

As if I never heard him . . .

As if I’ve ever had something so beautifully devastating said to me before. The words lay heavy with longing between us. “I don’t know what that means.”

He looks at the bag, and even from where I stand, I can see him reading the message I left for him. He turns back to find me across the room. His chest is full from a deep breath. When he exhales, he says, “You don’t have to thank me for letting you stay.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wasn’t going to leave you out in the cold.” He sounds so confident as if he’s never doubted how the night would turn out.

“So it wasn’t about the bears?”

“I know what we said, but hypothermia would get you first.” He glances at the bag again and then adds, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. I never doubted you. I was just . . .” What am I saying? Is it for him or me to walk away with a clean slate? I need to protect myself—professionally and personally—and my heart races from the sudden intimacy of the situation. “I don’t think we’re meant to be friends.”

“No,” he replies quick enough to hurt my feelings. “We couldn’t make it work the first time, so no use in prolonging the inevitable.”

“Why did you draw this?”

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