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It was the Bargainer’s idea to pick us up some Chinese, but he hasn’t touched his food since we sat down.

“You’ve changed.”

I have changed, haven’t I? Somewhere along the way I’d gotten a little more hardened. Maybe it was Des leaving, maybe it was my line of work, maybe it was just growing up.

I eye him. “Should I be offended?”

“Not at all, cherub. I find all versions of you quite … intriguing.”

Intriguing. That was one way of putting it.

I raise my eyebrows as I dip my chopsticks into the carton again. “You haven’t changed much,” I say.

“Should I be offended by that?” Des echoes my words, his voice huskier than usual.

I set down the white carton and push the last of the food away.

“No,” I say.

He shouldn’t be offended, but I should be worried. The same things that made me fall for him long ago are getting to me all over again.

“Hmmm,” he says, holding my stare for several seconds.

Then, with a wave of his hand, the cartons of takeout disappear from the dark wood table.

“You didn’t want any?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry.”

Then why is he here with me?

“You didn’t have to sit with me,” I say. “I’m no longer a needy teenager.”

I cringe to think of that girl who carelessly collected beads from the Bargainer to get just a few hours with him.

“Trust me, I know.”

Silence falls thick over us. In the past, it had never been this way. Then, the silence was always comfortable. Hell, there were evenings I’d ask him to stay and we wouldn’t talk at all.

But now the two of us have all this unresolvedbaggage.

“What are we doing here?” I finally ask.

Anything to lift this weight off my chest.

The Bargainer crosses his muscular arms over his chest. “You’re repaying your debts.”

“Stop it, Des,” I say. “You and I both know that’s not what I meant. Last night, you were going to tell me.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “But only if you stayed, Callie. You didn’t stay.”

“I could say the same for you.” All those lost years. “Do you even like me?”

“I’ve kissed you, I’ve begged you to stay with me, I’ve spent most of the last week with you. What do you think?” he says softly.

How can an answer manage to be everything I want to hear … while also making me want to pull my hair out?

“What do I think?” I say, swinging my legs off the table so that I can lean forward. “It doesn’tmatterwhat I think. That’s all I’ve been doing for the last seven years—thinking about what went wrong. I’m tired of trying to figure you out.”