Page 13 of Love You Too

“Oh. Well, I’m the opposite. Master at multitasking, here.” Ipoint to my chest with both thumbs. “My whole life is balancing like a hundred plates at once.”

His jaw falls open and cocks his head at me. “I don’t mean juggling. I mean balance.”

“What’s the difference?” I literally don’t know what he means. It’s practically a school requirement to be able to look at a phone and do something else at the same time. It’s all about multitasking in this day and age, and I proudly wear my crown as queen.

His laugh is so abrupt it startles me. “I’m talking about life balance. Things outside of work. Though I’m not one to talk, at least not yet. All I do is play hockey.”

“Yeah. I recall.” I whisper the words quietly, but the past hurt comes rolling back in my tone. I guess I’m not completely over the way he said he loved me and made me promise I was his forever before abruptly breaking my heart and moving to Canada. Alone.

“Is this…do you want to talk about that?” He leans slightly forward like he might step closer, but then he puts his hands in his pockets and stays rooted in place, his expression wary.

We’re standing in an empty bedroom with dust bunnies around the baseboards, peeling paint, and broken windowpanes. In his presence, I feel like this room—battered and worse for the wear—and that’s a side I won’t let anyone see. Especially this man.

“No. I don’t.”

The problem is that I don’t know what I want. Now that we’re alone here, it’s awkward and confusing. A part of me wants to be mad at him or hate him, but another bigger part of me wants to take the high road and show him that all he’s really good for at this point in my life is a good time. One and done.

“Let’s see the rest of the house.”

He studies me for a moment as if he’s gauging whether I meanit. Finally, he nods. “Okay. Wait until you see the upstairs bathroom. It’s purple and black. Definite bordello vibes.”

“Well, who wouldn’t want that?” I quip, following him up the creaky wooden staircase.

As it turns out,I want a bordello bathroom and more. I love this house. And despite myself, I feel a jittery, schoolgirlish pull toward Ren’s broad-shouldered, chiseled form.

There’s also something else. The Ren touring me through his house is more reserved and pensive than the hotshot hockey star I knew when he was twenty-two. Now, he has an indefinable air about him—more mature, quieter, deeper. I don’t want to like it, but I do.

Once the house tour is done, as promised, Ren brings us right back to where we were an hour ago. Only now, he ups the ante, trailing a finger from my shoulder down to my wrist. He’s been doing this for the past hour, leaning in so I can feel his breath caress my cheek. And I’ve been doing my best not to shudder. Or downright tremble. To be clear, I’ve been unsuccessful.

The man is hotness in human form. Even as our relationship fell apart, we still had chemistry, and that was part of the problem—it distracted me from understanding what was really happening between us. The tearing apart of first love. I assumed that if I ever saw him again, the past hurt would prevent me from feeling anything.

I was incorrect.

I mean… I don’t want him, per se, but I want what I know he can provide. My body wants his body. Badly.

“So,” he says, eyes moving over me so slowly that I feel the burn over every inch of my skin. “Would you like to see the casita? It has actual furniture, couches. We could…sit someplace.” He can barely hide his cheeky grin.

A blaze of heat races through my veins. I know his bedroom is in the casita.

I’m not worried about him breaking my heart again. That’s impossible now. My heart is well-sealed and protected, not vulnerable to his charms. And yet, despite myself, I still want him. Maybe it’ll give me some sort of closure to have sex with him. Regardless, I’m curious enough to see how this all plays out.

Laughing like I’m immune to the implications of seeing his room, I take a step backward. Then another. I try my hardest to keep my cool and not let my lady boner make life more complicated than it already is. “Are you renovating that too? If so, sure.” My breath comes out ragged, betraying me and cracking on the last word.

A peal of laughter rumbles from his throat. “Like I said, you’ve changed a bit in ten years.”

My exhilaration over the idea of a hot, satisfying quickie turns to annoyance. “Not really. Even back then, I think I could hold a conversation without needing to jump you.”

His eyebrows bounce. “Not how I remember it.”

I’m about to pepper him with retorts about needing to get over himself when he closes the distance between us in two long strides. Grabbing my hand, he floods my body with that damn electricity that scrambles all thoughts except one—I need him. Now.

“Whatever,” I grumble, following where he leads me around the back of the house. I can’t help craning my neck to take in tiny details in the eaves and evidence of the original trim colors in places where the sun hasn’t bleached it. “You’re delusional. It’s embarrassing, really.”

But I’m the one picking up the pace.

“Not at all embarrassed,” he says, leading me down a smaller walkway than the one in front of the main house. This one is quaint, lined with potted plants that look well-watered. Theyalternate between wandering rosemary and perky lavender, somehow still in bloom in early August.

“So, you found yourself a gardener,” I observe as we reach the front door, flanked with two larger pots, each containing a lemon tree laden with fruit and smaller green plants at the base. And daisies, lots of daisies.

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