Her tongue sweeps over her lips—a nervous gesture, and I can’t help but
notice the soft fullness of her mouth, with upper and lower lips equally plump and oh-so sensitive. I almost run a hand over my eyes. I so fucking need to get laid.
She makes a show of pulling out her phone to check the time. “I have a flight to catch.”
“Which doesn’t leave for more than three hours.”
“Okay, just how much do you know about my life?”
“You still haven’t answered my questions.”
She tilts her chin up, meets my gaze, and says, “I’m looking at you now.” She sighs to good effect, but there is an unnatural stiffness to her that betrays her. She might be a decent actress, but I grew up with Ryder Reed, who’s a freaking brilliant actor. After a moment she adds, “Was I supposed to stare at you the entire time we were eating?”
“No.”
“Lucas, I have to go—”
“Is it the scar?”
My hair usually hides it, but the cover isn’t perfect. I push it out of my face so she can see the whole ugly jaggedness on the left side of my face.
She inhales sharply and her hand flies to her mouth. “What happened?”
The question severs the tight rein I have on my temper. My voice rises. “What the hell do you mean, what happened?” I drop my hand, letting my hair conceal my disfigurement again. “You were there.”
She shakes her head. The luminous sheen of unshed tears in her eyes is like pouring oil over a fire. What gives her the right to look so stricken when she dumped me like so much trash? How dare she?
Maybe I underestimated her acting skills.
“You came by the hospital and left me a box.” I don’t mean to sound so damn bitter, but I can’t help myself. It festers like a wound that won’t heal.
“I was giving you back the things you gave me.” Her voice is hoarse.
“They were gifts. You were supposed to keep them.”
Then the fucking box wouldn’t have sat in a corner of my office and taunted me for months. You weren’t enough. None of the things you gave her—none of the things you could have given her—ever mattered.
Failure. Failure. Failure.
“It wasn’t right for me to keep them, given the circumstances. I couldn’t take anything from you.”
“But you did. You took something from me, and I want it back.”
The blood drains from her face, leaving it sheet white. She sways, knocking over her half-full wineglass. The Pinot Noir spills; the stemware shatters against the floor. The red drips over the table’s edge, soaking her shirt and jeans, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Alarm clangs through me.
“Ava!”
She starts to slump. I jump up to catch her lest she fall on the broken glass.
My arms wrap around her. She’s so damn slight, so fragile. Her skin feels too cool, her breathing shallow. Her heart is racing like a terrified sparrow’s.
Our waiter assesses the situation and comes over with a broom and dustpan. A busboy appears with a couple of hand towels. I help Ava up, not caring that the wine is staining my clothes.
“Ava.”
She blinks a few times and looks up at me. There’s some life in her eyes now, and I let out a shuddering breath.