There’s no heat to my internal chant — only resigned sadness.
“You hear me?” Closer still, and this time the iron in his tone is undeniable. He wants an answer.
I sigh and turn my head to look over one shoulder at him.
“I heard you,” I echo softly, my eyes meeting his.
Something flashes across his face — concern? surprise? — when he catches sight of my expression and hears the exhaustion in my tone, but he doesn’t comment. I watch his jaw tighten as his eyes roam my features.
He’s devastatingly handsome, even in the dark.
It’s pretty annoying.
“Go back inside,” he commands, no kindness in his voice.
I’m too tired to fight with him and certainly too weak to keep looking at him without caving to the need to step into his chest and wrap my arms around him, so I just turn back to the water, lean deeper against the railing, and murmur, “Actually, I’m good right here.”
I hear what I think is a curse and then he’s there, right beside me, hovering so close I can feel the heat of his chest. Not touching me, but almost.
It takes physical effort to keep my body from leaning into his, to keep my eyes locked on the river — a spill of dark ink, now that the sun’s set.
Love that dirty water, Bostonians everywhere chant at sports games and bar crawls, taking pride in the polluted Charles. Reveling in their adoration for something broken and toxic and wrong.
I know a little about that.
“West.”
Am I crazy, or is his voice a fraction softer? A shade kinder?
I’m probably crazy. Or drunk.
Maybe both.
“It’s cold as hell out here,” he informs me unnecessarily. I know just how icy the air is between us, how many frozen degrees of separation divide his body from mine.
I nod and sip my champagne, lacking the energy to snap back at him, as I’d usually do in this scenario. There hasn’t been a single conversation between us in the past ten years that wasn’t laced with sarcasm and scorn.
First time for everything.
“Dammit, West.” His words are harsh, but his voice is uncharacteristically rattled. Like he doesn’t quite know how to handle me, when I’m not cursing at him. “Nothing’s fucking easy with you.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” My voice is so bland you’d think we were discussing cereal brands.
He’s silent for a moment, before barking, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
I shrug, still not looking at him. “Nothing.”
“Then why aren’t you being a sarcastic pain in my ass and snapping at me for ordering you around?”
I turn my head to look at him — I can’t help myself — and as soon as our gazes meet, I feel the breath seize in my lungs.
It’s hard, so hard, to be indifferent with those dark eyes a half-foot away from mine.
Tension builds like a summer storm in the space between us — charged air currents zinging from my body to his.
His jaw starts to tick. “West—”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” I ask, the words popping out before I can stop them. I’m not sure who’s more surprised by my question.
His brow furrows. “Tired of you being a sarcastic pain in my ass?”
I try to grin but only half my mouth cooperates. I look away before he sees the flimsy smile, proof of my deep unease.
“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.”
Indifferent, I tell myself. You’re indifferent to him. You’ve got a hot date inside who actually likes you. Why waste your time on someone who so clearly doesn’t?
My inner voice is about as convincing as an oceanfront condo salesman in Nebraska.
Silence drags on. After a second, I feel him step closer. It takes every ounce of energy I possess to remain still.
“Tired of what?” Nate mutters, sounding like he’d rather have bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails than continue this conversation with me.
It’s almost enough to draw out a real smile. Almost.