He cocked his head to the side an inch, waiting.
“Look at you,” Holly said. “You’re a tremendous success.”
“Business success isn’t everything in life.”
She parted her lips to defend—defend what? Defend his own outstanding accomplishments? Business success wasn’t everything in life. She couldn’t take the position that it was, especially since she didn’t know how fulfilled or unfulfilled his own success had left him. “I broke up with you because I wanted what I thought was best for you more than anything else. Do you believe me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you forgive me?”
She nearly had cardiac arrest while she waited for him to answer. He was a thoughtful man. A man who could not be slowed when his mind had been made up or rushed when he needed time to think.
He gave her a small, sad smile and placed his hand on his knee, palm up. An invitation.
She placed her hand in his and his fingers tightened around it. She was holding his hand! Sensory details rushed through Holly’s nerves, buzzing and spinning, wondrously sweet. He’d offered her his hand in a gesture of camaraderie, a nostalgic acknowledgment of all they’d shared when they’d been young and bound together by first love.
“It’s forgiven,” Josh said. “I just need time to . . . process.”
“Sure.” Hot moisture pushed against the backs of her eyes. All this time, she’d wanted to tell him that she was sorry. What she hadn’t realized until now? How crucial it would be to hear him say he’d forgiven her. “Thank you.”
“How’s anyone supposed to stay mad at you? Is there a mean bone in your body?”
“There are a few. I can be downright cruel to fictional bad guys.”
He did not appear impressed.
“I have uncharitable thoughts about Mitzi, Amanda and Ben’s wedding coordinator.”
“Huh.”
She got lost in his beautiful eyes, in the texture of his strong, warm fingers around hers. “It took me a really long time to get over you,” she murmured before she’d thought through the comment or given herself full permission to speak it.
“But you eventually did?”
“Eventually.” Maybe that answer was close enough to true not to be a lie? Or maybe that lie would become true next month or next year?
He stood, breaking the link between them, then helped her scoot out her chair. They chatted about the weather while they collected their outerwear. He shrugged into his navy pea coat.
That dratted coat. It made him resemble a hero in a romantic movie. Six-plus feet of intelligent, unattainable handsomeness. She had an overpowering urge to grab the lapels of that coat and rise onto her tiptoes to kiss him. She wanted to ruffle his hair and his mastery of himself, and she really wanted to shatter the careful good manners between them.
That wayward thought, coupled with her uninvited affection for him, sent a stab of fear through her.
What was that famous groundhog’s name? Punxsutawney Phil? Every time he saw his shadow and returned to his hole, folks could expect six more weeks of winter. She did not want Josh to become her Punxsutawney Phil. She refused to face eight more years of heartache every time she saw him. She’d done one bout of heartache courtesy of Josh. She could not do another eight years. No thank you.
They drove back to Martinsburg, the car filled with subdued conversation about her next book release and his favorite brands of coffee. Inwardly, though, Holly was already beginning to wonder whether she’d done the right thing when she’d told him her schedule was booked. She’d done what she’d had to do for the sake of self-preservation. Still, their outings had been wonderful. Talking with him, teasing him, seeing him smile. Those things had been a joy, the sort of deep joy that didn’t often cross her path. The days ahead, days empty of him, already looked like a desert.
Holly, he must have fabulous women with names like Babette or Amelie available to him in Paris. He might even have a Parisian girlfriend at this very moment. She did not expressly know that he didn’t. He probably did. She was simply a high school girlfriend from long ago.
She’d longed for closure and the talk they’d just had had given her exactly that. Everything she’d hoped to say to him, she’d said. He’d told her he’d forgiven her.
It was enough.
It had to be enough.
On Saturday, Holly sat cross-legged on the floor of her parents’ kitchen, Shadow in her lap. Nothing but the sun easing through the windows illuminated the chilly interior, which they warmed to sixty-five for Shadow’s comfort in the fall and winter months.
The cat lifted her head and purred while Holly scratched under her chin. “Nice home you got here, Shadow.”
The feline gave her a haughty look that said, It’s no less than I deserve.
“Quite right.” More chin scratching.