I begin the tedious task of picking them all up and stacking them in shorter piles on the table.
I’ve been tucked away in a back corner of the bookstore all afternoon. We haven’t been very busy anyway, so that coupled with my seclusion has given me way too much time to think, and I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
All I can do is think about Fenton.
Everything reminds me of him. The cover model on one super-sexy book. The girl in a bikini on another. The grey paint in this part of the store would match his eyes and I know he’d hate the music playing over the speakers, just like he hated the similar music in the café we stopped at for breakfast on the way to the yacht.
It’s a miserable decline into the pits of remorse.
I’ve always heard you shouldn’t regret your decisions. You should analyze them, learn from them, and be grateful. I wonder if those people have ever experienced Fenton Abbott and then had him turn away.
Doubtful.
“Ugh,” I groan, picking up a book with a boat on the cover. It looks romantic and fun and I hate it instantly. I hope the heroine knows how that ends. He’s going to drop her off at home and she’ll be heartbroken in the bookstore at the end of the novel.
I slam it down a little more forcefully than necessary.
I’m not heartbroken.
I bend over and scoop up a novel that’s hidden under the table. It’s a glossy pink cover with a beautiful couple kissing under a palm tree. He has dark hair and a strong jawline, just like Fenton.
I press it to my chest and take a deep breath. If I try hard enough, I can smell his cologne.
“Brynne? You can take your break now,” my boss says as she walks by, carrying a stack of magazines. “There’s coffee cake in the break room. I made it this morning.”
“Thanks,” I grin, feeling relieved. I need a shot of sugar and some time to get myself together.
Working my way to the break room, I spy the dessert, take a chunk and cuddle up on a loveseat as my phone lights up with a number I don’t know. I swipe it instantly. “Hello?”
“Hey, Brynne.” Grant’s voice shoots through the phone, rougher than any I’ve heard in awhile. The familiarity I once found in his timbre is long gone.
“Grant?”
“How have you been? I was by a couple of days ago.”
“So I heard.”
“You okay?”
Dropping the rest of the cake in the garbage next to the chair, I sit up and sigh. “I’m great. What do you want?”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“No.”
He sighs and I know he’s scratching his head. He always does that when he’s frustrated. “Please?”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do, actually,” he says, his voice lower now. “I want to talk to you about some stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Just . . . stuff. I can come over, if you want.”
Remembering my father’s warning, I give in. I know Grant’s going to show up. That’s just how he is. If I at least hear him out and agree to do it somewhere publicly, maybe he won’t come by the house and cause a scene.
“No,” I groan. “Don’t do that. I’ll . . . I’ll meet you somewhere tomorrow night.”
“You will?”
I hear the surprise in his voice and instead of making me smile, I frown deeper. “I guess. You’re leaving me no choice.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you a place later. Does that work?”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
“Awesome! I can’t wait to see you, Brynne.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I click off the phone and squeeze my temple. The son-of-a-bitch better have something to tell me. Before I can think about it too long, the phone rings again. I hold it in my hands, watching Fenton’s name at the top of the screen.
“Hello?” I try to sound as relaxed as I can, like I was just lying on my bed, watching television. The syllables come out forced, breathy, but it’s the best I can do.
“Hey, Brynne. It’s Fent.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. It tugs at the memories of being actually wrapped around him and that stings. Even so, I can’t help but feel the little hope budding in my gut at his attempt at reaching out.
“Fent, huh?”
“It’s a newly acquired moniker given to me by a beautiful, sassy, bikini-clad girl. I kind of miss hearing it, actually.”
“Whoever gave it to you was clearly a genius.”
“That might be stretching it . . .”
The laugh that radiates from me betrays my attempt at sounding cool and unattached. Our banter is too comfortable. It’s almost as if we haven’t lost a step in the easy way we have together. Had together. Whatever.
The uncertainty of where we actually stand and the anticipation of why he might’ve called riddle me, and as much as I want to just start talking, I don’t. The ball is in his court.
“I thought I’d check on you,” he says.
“I’m good.”
He breathes heavily and I know he’s squeezing his temples. I wonder where he’s at and how things are going for him. And before I know it, I’m asking. “How are you?”