Page 61 of She's Like the Wind
“People get over people,” he continued, leaned, and kissed my nose. “You’ll get over him. Give me a chance, darlin’.”
My mouth went dry and blurted out, “You’re not in love with me, Jonah.”
“No.” He let out a clean laugh. “But I like your company. I’d sleep with you in a heartbeat, though. No pressure. Just facts.”
I laughed into my coffee. “Appreciated. Noted. Ignored.”
After he left, I felt oddly lighter, and because I did, I could see myself a little clearer.
I’d been looking, too, and I’d stopped when I met Gage.
He hadn’t been looking.
I didn’t want Jonah…or rather, I wanted what I had with Gage—without the feeling that I was loving a man who didn’t know what to do with that love once he had it.
Get back to work, Naomi. Bras and panties make sense. Wisps of lace make sense. But wishful thinking? That is nonsense—and the fastest way to getting hurt.
CHAPTER 21
Gage
Isat at the bar at Bar Pomona, nursing a Loire Valley cabernet franc.
I knew about Bar Pomona as Aurelie gushed about it—but hadn’t been here before.
It was Monday night, which was lasagna night, which the café was famous for with the locals. I could smell roasted garlic and herbs.
I watched as the chef worked the focaccia before she put it into the oven.
Eighties music played overhead, and there were groups of people at the tables already, ordering lasagna, which was served with a Caesar salad and garlic bread.
The couple beside me was sharing braised white beans with focaccia, which looked darn good, but I wasn’t going to be able to eat dinner at five in the evening.
A server walked past carrying a conservas board, and I was tempted to rethink my dinner time.
I half listened to the bartender as she discussed the difference between two Pet-Nat bubbly wines with a customer.
Behind me were an assortment of jams—fig-jalapeno, rosemary tomato, and others, glinting on the shelves like mini challenges for one’s palate.
I took a sip of wine, resisting the urge to text Aurelie and ask her where the hell she was and why she was fifteen minutes late.
I’d texted her the night before, asking her if we could meet andtalk. She saidmaybeand then asked me to be at Bar Pomona for lasagna night at five. She had a set at Bamboulas at seven thirty.
Aurelie came in and greeted half the café—guests and employees—before she settled next to me. Her long braids were piled high, hoops swung on her ears, she wore a pink denim jumpsuit with embroidery, and she looked at me like I was a serial killer.
A server came by. River, whom Aurelie evidently knew well, because she leaned over the counter and hugged her.
“I’ll take the chilled red and a lasagna,” she told her.
River looked at me enquiringly. I raised my glass. “I’m good with just wine.”
River set a place for Aurelie, a small plate and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. She added awater glass for Aurelie and filled both our glasses, setting the bottle of water in front of me.
After Aurelie drank some of the wine that River served her, she glared at me. “You’ve got some nerve.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. Youthinkyou know. That’s your problem.”
