Page 32 of Shot Taker

I jump up, three sets of surprised eyes flying my way.

“I’m so sorry. Give me one minute.”

I dash for the hall, theGrumpy Ballercontact on the screen making me curse.

“Clay, this is not a good time,” I answer once I’m tucked out of sight.

“So, you don’t like the flowers,” he deadpans.

In the restaurant full of strangers flirting and clinking wine glasses, his voice is more real than any of it.

I sigh. “They’re beautiful. But they can’t erase the past.”

“That’s not what I wanted to do.” There’s a long pause. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I guess I wanted you to think of me.”

The laughter bubbles up from nowhere. “Trust me, thinking of you isn’t my problem.” I should stop talking, but the words spill out. “I spend my day on a ladder with a twenty-foot-high image of you at my back. Which makes it even more fucked up that I can’t draw you, because I know every inch of you.”

“Not every inch.” His voice lowers, and suddenly I’m reminded of everything we did.

And all the things we didn’t.

“Goodnight, Clay—”

“Wait, don’t hang up.” His breathing gets louder. “The night of the wedding, I should have taken you home with me. God knows I wanted to.”

My head falls back, and I stare unseeing at the overhead lights. “Then why didn’t you?” I can’t help asking.

“Because I fucked up. I cared about you, Nova. I still care.”

The emotion in my chest is twisting, agonizing, but it’s not the emptiness of the past month. There’s a glimmer of light beneath it all.

Hope.

But he didn’t take me home, I remind myself as a woman brushes past me heading for the bathroom. Instead, he gave me a letter that made me feel an inch tall.

Paul might not be the guy for me, but I need someone who understands how to act like a grown-up. How to communicate and compromise.

Clay has a million pieces of evidence as to why he’s amazing. I’m still trying to prove to myself that I have my life figured out.

“I need to make this mural for James incredible,” I say at last. “You want to make it up to me, help me not be hung up on yesterdays that can’t exist again. Help me live my life now.”

“Nova—”

“I’m on a date,” I choke out before I click off and switch my phone to "do not disturb".

I head back to the table, uttering my apologies as I shove the device back in my bag.

The rest of dinner is a grind.

Paul asks for my number, and I give it to him mostly to help him save face in front of Mari and Harlan.

I get home to find Brooke still out and the entire apartment smelling like a field of wildflowers.

I cross to the bouquet, and my fingers reach for the petals of one, stroking their velvety surface.

They’re beautiful. Fresh and bright and happy.

A knock at the door makes me jump.

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