Page 54 of Tattered Edges

I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but I bet he wasn’t.

I’d been to the Parlour.

Reaching for my drink, I nodded toward his and inquired, “How does yours rate tonight?”

“Not bad. I’d give it a seven out of ten, which is pretty good, seeing as they’re known for their food more than their drinks.”

“Good to know.”

Conversation was easier after that. We discussed topics that ranged from work to our favorite kinds of music. I learned his dad was Irish, which was why he had a muddled accent, and we both had a distaste for mushrooms. By the time we were finished with our dinner, my stomach wasn’t the only thing that was full.

When our server asked if we’d like to see the dessert menu, my insides tingled pleasantly when Rory insisted we would.

He wasn’t ready to leave, which felt nice.

I wasn’t ready, either.

We agreed to split the sticky toffee waffle because, why not?

As we waited for it to arrive, feeling comfortable and relaxed, I brazenly asked, “How old are you?”

He quirked an eyebrow and muttered, “Forty-one. Why?”

“Have you ever been married?”

He relaxed his brow as his face became expressionless.

“No,” he answered matter-of-factly.

I didn’t want to admit to myselfwhyI was digging, but neither could I ignore the voice in my head pleading with me to keep going.

“Have you ever been close?”

“I don’t even know what that means—but if you’re asking if I’ve ever been engaged, no. Why?”

It was a fair a question, one I couldn’t duck on account of he’d answered mine.

“I’m trying to figure you out, I guess. You’re—you’re successful, kind, handsome and handy. You strike me as someone who could have any woman he wanted, but you don’t. Are you uninterested in romantic entanglements?”

He studied me for a long time before he answered. After a few seconds, I began to feel warm beneath his gaze, but I refused to look away.

If he thought I was asking on a strictly platonic level, I assumed he wouldn’t have any reason not to tell me. We’d been open with each other all night.

If he thought I was asking as my way of reopening the door he’d shut that first night, I didn’t want to cower.

Finally, he said, “I just know better.”

Frowning in confusion, I murmured, “What do you mean? Know better than what?”

“I know better than to enter into a relationship that’s bound to fail when she realizes she’ll never have all of me because I’m incapable of complete surrender.”

“And what doesthatmean?”

He paused again, his hesitation evident before he replied, “My last relationship ended five years ago. We were together for six. She lived in my flat for more than half that time. We split up when she took a job in Nottingham. It was the right move for her. Better prospects, better wage. I understood why she wanted it—but I couldn’t leave the pub, no matter how much I loved her. She knew that. But one of us was going to have to lose.

“In the end, she decided it wasn’t going to be her. She made me choose—her or the pub. I chose the pub. I’ll always choose the pub. I know that now, unequivocally.”

I opened my mouth to respond at the same time our dessert was delivered, and that brief moment of interruption was enough to save me from saying something I couldn’t take back; an admission neither of us was ready for me to say.

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