Page 92 of Reverse

“Space Age Love Song”

A Flock of Seagulls

Natalie

After battling Easton for minutes—minutes he argues we don’t have to spare—I relent and let him into my apartment. The thought of being intimate with him again and suffering a similar aftermath is too much to bear. Even if we can’t become anything resembling what we left in Seattle, I decide to live in the moment, if only to witness him realizing his dreams.

He’s mostly quiet as he prowls around my apartment, pausing at my built-in bookshelf before focusing on the digital photo frame that fades in and out with years of pictures.

“Is the brunette Holly?”

“Yeah,” I reply from beside my bed in front of my open suitcase, flattered he remembered her name. A second later, his posture stiffens.

“What?”

He lifts the frame that hosts a picture of Damon and me the night we graduated, arms thrown around each other, smiles beaming. “Please tell me this isn’t fucking Damon.”

I can’t help my answering laugh. “Yeah, and sadly, he’s even prettier in real life.”

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath as I press my lips together, trying desperately not to read into the hint of jealousy. As pretty as Damon may be, not once have I ever felt a tenth of what I do when I look at Easton.

At my closet, I glance over to see him pulling my Cactus yearbook from the shelf.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the oldest publication at the University of Texas. It’s kind of like a yearbook for each graduating class.”

“Did you like college?”

“Yeah . . . well, in hindsight, it’s kind of a blur to me.”

His chest bounces as he puts the book back. “In other words, you didn’t cut loose much.”

“Didn’t have time. I spent a lot of it working atSpeakwhen I wasn’t helping atThe Daily Texan.”

He lifts his chin in prompt.

“The UT paper,” I clarify.

“Overachiever,” he mutters, closing the book before shelving it and gazing at me with an intense stare. “Good thing you now know you’re capable of more, at least with me.”

“Think so?”

“I know so,” he says with a level of certainty that has anticipation rolling through me.

“Well, that’s not possible,” I mumble, grabbing a skirt from a hanger and tucking it into my suitcase.

“What’s that?” He asks, temporarily distracted by the mini maracas I got as a souvenir on a family vacation.

“I’ll only be a few more minutes,” I amplify my voice and make a mental note the man has bat hearing. “Those are from Mexico,” I say as he rolls the tiny instruments between his skilled fingers.

“Yeah? I’ve never been.”

“It’s a must. Dad used to take us annually to this spot he loves. It’s less touristy, and—” I turn and falter when I see Easton standing in my bedroom doorway, his hands braced on the frame above him, biceps bulging. He’s so fucking perfect that I pause my packing to admire him.

“Your place is nice. Comfortable.”

“Thanks,” I can’t help my smile, “I’m sensing a but . . .”

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