Page 11 of The Wrong Move

She bites her lower lip, her brow remains tight. Isabella sweeps up her hand, and they take another bow. My cue to leave. I achieved what I wanted. It’s time for Giana to celebrate her success with her fashion family, and I need an early night before my red-eye practice session tomorrow morning.

3

GIANA

What waswith him showing up yesterday? I can’t explain it, nor can I explain the text Byron sent this morning. It’s messed with my head since. I remind myself it’s a friendly chat over coffee, nothing else. Definitely not a date.

Yet my heart beats nervously, and I checked my hair and lipstick three times before walking out the door to drive to Santa Monica. I know what he’s doing. The last time we met out, we were in Santa Monica, and I told him how much I loved the beach. He booked the same café where we used to meet before I went to college. One particular time is ingrained in my memory—the day after we drank too many cocktails by his pool and ended up in bed together. The last time I saw him, he was not the Byron I thought I knew.

I was one ofmanywho fell under the charm of Byron Hendricks, and today, I won’t be added to the count again. I need to maintain us being strictly friends so my thoughts aren’tconfused by what my heart feels if I’m going to take the next step in my career.

A giant step out of LA.

Don’t be a prude.

It’s not like I haven’t had men in my life. They helped with the lonely nights spent in foreign countries. Italian men are fluent in the language of love, but Byron does something to me no other man can. I keep telling myself we were kids, and my first was special. Maybe it was the cocktails or the guesthouse overlooking the pool. Byron made me feel beautiful and caressed every part of me as though he loved every inch of my body. With him, sex came as a natural step in sealing the bond between us.

Until I went to college, and then I knew I wasn’t a love interest he wanted to pursue.

Before college, we told each other about our hopes for the future, and I don’t blame him for being focused on making his basketball dreams come true. We both did what it took to pursue those goals. After the last time we had sex, I tried to forget him. Within two days, an offer came through for a mentorship in Italy—an opportunity I ran to, leaving my heart back in LA.

So here I am, back where our story began. We are going to visit the place where we shared our fears. What Byron didn’t realize was that not keeping in contact after everything we shared was one of my fears on steroids. When he stopped texting, it meant I wasn’t someone he respected, not even as a friend.

After I park, I take my purse, which matches the tulip print of my Leto Designs dress, and walk the block to Coral’s café.

Byron waits out front. His foot is perched against the shop’s discolored white, rendered brick wall, his head lowered as he scrolls on his phone.

“Too vain to wait inside alone?”

He looks up at me, and a smile grows on those lips that have me swooning on the inside. “Giana. You’re late.”

I check my phone and roll my eyes. “By one minute.”

“Still late.” He leans in and hugs me. “It’s good to see you.”

I’m hugging him tighter than intended because being in his strong arms feels good. He releases me, takes my free hand while holding the door open, and leads me into the café. Is it so wrong I like that he has shifted into protector mode? My brain is telling me to set boundaries, and hand-holding is a no because Byron accelerates to familiarity faster than Maverick testing the limits of the Darkstar.

He pulls out a chair for me to sit, and I’m already liking this gentlemanly side of him. For a moment, I’m curious. I want to know more about the man Byron has become, but I squash that idea flat.

Rule #1: Do not get your heart broken in LA.

“Soy latte?” He eyes me, and I notice the slightest grin. No points to him, even though I’m impressed he remembered my choice of coffee.

“No. I take almond milk occasionally, though I prefer a short black these days.”

“Noted.” He orders my coffee and adds a green energy juice for himself. While he reads the menu, pondering food, I take the opportunity to make some mental notes.

His face has changed from a boyish look to that of a man, with an angular jaw and high cheekbones. His blue eyes remain deeply set with dark, thick lashes most girls would give a kidney for. Eyes that cause me to inhale ever so slightly, even though I worked hard to erase that face from my memory.

It’s not that he hurt me. More what we could have had, and he didn’t try. My stupid pride made sure he never got another chance.

“So, Italy…” He places the menu on the table. “How long were you there?”

“From the last time we saw each other, up to a week ago.”

His eyes flick over my face, his grin lost to an expression of deep thought.

“What?” I ask.

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