by Sarina Bowen
She used to put her thumb right there beneath his full lower lip as she tugged his face closer for a kiss.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks!” she insisted, snapping out of it. She tore her gaze off of the only man she’d ever loved and looked up Flatbush for the Rav4 Uber had promised her. Every muscle in her body was tense as she waited for the goalie to just walk away.
Which he did not do.
She turned and pinned him with what the assistants in the Manhattan office termed the Lauren Glare. The laser like effect of her stare made interns put away their phones and get back to work. It seared incompetent messengers into delivering packages in a timely fashion. It was a “powerful and terrifying weapon,” according to her coworkers.
Beacon just smiled.
What an asshole.
“Why are you still here?” she asked.
“Because you’re standing on a dark sidewalk at midnight?”
Seriously? This from a man so obviously unconcerned with her wellbeing? If he gave a damn, he wouldn’t have walked out on her two years ago without an explanation. He wouldn’t have tossed her heart on the street, stomped on it, and then vanished from her life. Forty-eight hours before she realized he was gone, they’d been circling real-estate listings in the newspaper together, discussing whether they needed a three-bedroom apartment, or whether two would be plenty. While naked. In bed.
Lauren didn’t need to remind him, though, because she’d said it all before. For weeks she’d sobbed into his voice mail because he didn’t pick up the phone. She’d begged for an explanation, wondering what she’d done wrong.
There was really no point in going there again. “Just don’t, okay?” she demanded instead.
“Don’t what?” his husky voice asked.
Oh, for christ’s sake. She turned to face him, her blood pressure doubling. “Don’t be nice. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just stay between the pipes and guard the damn net. And leave me the hell alone.”
He swallowed, and she saw a flicker of a shadow cross his face, but it was gone before she could name the emotion. Note to self—never square off against a fricking goalie. They were the masters of playing it cool when they wanted to. Lauren found herself staring again, trying not to remember how easy it had been to get him to toss off the mask and really live. “Nobody gets me like you do,” he’d whispered into her ear.
It had been a lie, though. Obviously.
A quick tap on a car horn broke the weird spell over her. She turned to see a Rav4 against the curb, a man peering up at her that matched the profile picture of the Uber driver she’d requested.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
Without another word Lauren got into the back seat and shut the door. She couldn’t resist a parting glance up at Beacon, though.
He stood there, hands jammed in his pockets, watching her car pull away.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you Patricia Nelson for listening so well. It’s going to be awesome. Thank you Julie Mianecki, Kerry Donovan, Ryanne Probst, and the whole Penguin team. Thanks to Melissa Mayer for your help with Ari’s massage therapy techniques. And thank you to Melanie Sen for helping me spot some errors. I’m so blessed to have all of your help!
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Sarina Bowen is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance, including the Brooklyn Bruisers series, the Ivy Years series, and the Gravity series. She lives in Vermont’s Green Mountains with her family, six chickens, and too much ski gear and hockey equipment. Visit her online at sarinabowen.com, facebook.com/authorsarinabowen, and twitter.com/SarinaBowen.