Page 67 of Selfish Desires

“Vincent, stop,” Wendy said through gritted teeth.

“I hate when you say my name angry.” I frowned.

“Oh really?” Wendy thrust her tongue into her cheek.

“Really,” I said, watching her icy stare begin to thaw.

“Is there something else you’d like me to call you?” she suggested, a wicked smile creeping onto her face.

“I can think of a few things.” I clasped my hands behind my back, rocking on my heels.

She raised an eyebrow at my answer, but Wendy’s stern expression slowly faded. Circling the table, she picked up one of the poker chips, turning it over in her hands thoughtfully.

“You know,” Wendy started, tracing her fingers along the chip's edges now resting on her palm. “I kind of don’t trust you right now.”

“Why?” I twisted my face. “I won this fair and square.”

“There is nothing square about you.” Wendy bit her bottom lip, fighting a smile.

“That’s not true. I have very square shoulders. My tailor always told me so. And Marjorie.” I closed the distance between us and pressed my forehead to Wendy’s, the heat of her skin seeping into my body.

“If Marjorie says so, then it must be true.” Wendy brought her lips closer, her warm breath tickling my chin.

“Let’s stop talking about my mother, okay?” I brushed my mouth against Wendy’s.

“You brought her up first.” Wendy wrapped her arms around my neck. Her lips were barely a breath away from mine. “Seriously, though. What happened between you and Stephen earlier?”

I jerked my head away so I could view Wendy’s curious gaze. And I told her what transpired between us. A whole lot of nothing, but I walked away with something. I couldn’t read Wendy’s expression as I told her the story, but at least her body remained pressed to mine.

“This needs to stop, Vincent. You can’t keep questioning everyone here; otherwise, you’ll have an even bigger problem.” Wendy ran her fingertips along my jawline, inching their way up my cheeks and through my hair.

Her touch was soothing, but her words stung. I knew she was right. “Maybe you’re right,” I murmured, touching her arm. Her fingers stilled in my hair. How she looked at me as though she was trying to solve a complicated puzzle made me feel incredibly vulnerable.

“But,” I continued, struggling to keep my voice steady, “I need you to understand why I'm doing this.”

“And I do, Vin. I do. And you have no idea how much it means to me to watch you so determined to ensure we’re okay.” Wendy’s eyes searched mine for confirmation, except I waited for her next words. “But I can’t live this way much longer. This needs to stop.”

I closed my eyes, knowing she was right. I had just hoped I would have solved this big gigantic fucking problem before Wendy shed light on the obvious. I was going to destroy us if I kept us on this hunt, and it meant making a choice: give this up and live hoping for the best, or continue. This time, I was going to do the right thing and the right move by Wendy. If she wanted me to stop, then I would stop.

Because no matter what, I couldn’t lose her again.

“You’re not going to go over and talk to him?” Marissa nudged my shoulder from behind, almost making me drop an entire tray of chocolate croissants with the perfect sprinkling of confectioner’s sugar.

“What do you mean?” I asked, squinting at the kitchen door’s square fogged window. Stephen sat in the front of the restaurant, sipping on a cappuccino for too long. He wasn’t lingering around to enjoy an overpriced cup of coffee. He wanted to talk, but I had nothing to say. Yes, our friendship shifted since the night I failed to seduce him, and especially once Vincent proposed to me. But I guess that was what happened with certain friendships. Some weren’t meant to last. Also, Vincent stole Stephen’s beloved poker table…so yeah. There was a lot to keep track of, and I was just trying not to jinx the three-week streak of no other threats popping up. To say I was relieved was a grand understatement.

Vincent, oddly enough, was not. Even though he tried to appear relaxed for my sake, it was obvious how often he peered over his shoulder, absorbing every minute detail surrounding us. Vincent failed at hiding his trepidations from me. I guess that was the downside of knowing someone as well as you knew yourself.

I set the tray of croissants gently on the counter, brushing a stray fleck of powdered sugar off my apron. Marissa watched me, her thick brows furrowed.

“Maybe you should,” Marissa pressed, fixing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You know, clear the air. It's been weird between you two.”

I glanced at the tray on the stainless steel counter, then at Stephen through the misty glass. His gaze was fixed on his coffee cup, its steam curling up like tendrils of smoke. “Maybe,” I murmured, knowing I would only say hello, and then quickly retreat to the safety of the kitchen.

Tightening my apron tighter around my waist, I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. Marissa was right. It was time to face Stephen, not just for him but also for myself. If you didn't confront it, the past had a way of gnawing at you. I was the expert.

I pushed open the kitchen door and stepped into the bustling restaurant. Conversations blurred into a soft hum around me, occasionally punctuated by laughter or silverware clinking against plates. The smell of coffee and baked goods filled the air, creating an atmosphere that was, under different circumstances, comforting.

Stephen looked up from his cup as I approached his table. His eyes had an odd light as if he'd been looking back on better days. He offered a small smile, which I returned with an equally forced one.

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