Page 122 of Collect the Pieces

Now, I’m done pretending. “About what?”

“I need to speak to you.”

I glance into the viewing room. The guests have dwindled down to a handful of folks. I catch Paul’s eye and through a series of hand signals let him know I’ll be in the kitchen.

Jerking my head to the side, I indicate Daniel can follow me.

A teenager dressed in black jeans and a black sweater is bent over staring into the refrigerator. “Can I help you?” My tone’s sharp. No one’s supposed to be in here.

“You got any snacks?” she asks.

Working with the public sure is a pain in the rump sometimes. I guide her into the parlor and point her in the direction of the table with cookies and a few other items.

Once we’re alone, I turn and face Daniel.

And suddenly wish I hadn’t chased the teenager away.

“What’s on your mind?” I walk over to the refrigerator and pull out a cool bottle of water, stopping to roll it over my forehead for a second before uncapping it.

Daniel stares at me with his mouth agape, as if I’d rubbed the bottle through my cleavage.

“Your father told me to talk to you.”

“About what?” I take a quick sip of water.

He steps forward and tugs the water bottle out of my hands, setting it on the counter.

What the hell?

“I miss you.” He holds out his arms as if he expects me to leap into his embrace.

He wasn’t that touchy-feely when we were an actual couple.

My glare remains in place until he slowly returns his arms to his sides.

I arch an eyebrow. “What about Danielle?” Last I knew he had a girlfriend. Not that I care one way or another. The question is my weak attempt to shame Daniel for telling me he misses me when he’s with someone else.

“We broke up.”

“Why? You seemed perfect for each other.”Oof,that came out a few shades snottier than I intended.

He frowns, then shakes his head. “No.Youwere perfect for me. And I threw that away.”

Bile burns the back of my throat. A year or two ago I would’ve relished this apology. I still wouldn’t have wanted to get back together with him, but it would’ve felt vindicating.

Now, I just feel sick.

And angry.

“We make sense, Margot.” He aims his scowling face in the direction of the back parking lot. “You can’t be serious about dating some lowlife biker.”

One thing I’ve learned in this business—guilty people are mean people. Relatives who are drowning in guilt because they didn’t spend enough time with their loved ones are always awful. So are ex-boyfriends who suddenly feel bad about the way they treated you, now that you’re with someone else.

When I don’t react or comment on Daniel’s insult he frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’d wanted to bait me, and I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I keep my face blank. Emotionless. Letting him know he’s not worth the effort.

The longer we go without speaking, the more Daniel fidgets.

“Your father said I should talk to you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, then drops them to his sides.

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