Page 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Dozer

My mouth pressed in a grim line, I usher Marissa to the bar, where the bartender waves me off. “Your friends covered it,” he calls over the crowd close to him.

I hold my hand up in a wave, grateful Marissa lets me wrap an arm around her to help block her from the view of the people with their phones out recording this. I’ll need to reach out to Molly, the team publicist, as soon as we get out of here so she can get on damage control right away.

Fucking hell. I’ve managed to keep my name out of the tabloids and gossip sites so far this season, and it’s been so nice not to have to worry about it. Here we are with yet another public blowup.

This time, though, I’m far more concerned with how this’ll affect Marissa than how it’ll affect me. Before, I never managed to call Molly in time to keep the story from leaking everywhere. My former girlfriends always made sure of that. They orchestrated the public fights and blowups to get themselves seen.

Marissa’s not like that, though. She doesn’t want that kind of attention. And that’s always been one of my favorite things about her.

I’ve always wanted someone who wants me for me, not for my notoriety or to leverage my career to launch their own as some kind of influencer or something. And I’ve finally found that. And here I am, fucking it up six ways to Sunday.

As we rush out of the bar, my mind’s racing. Once we’re outside, I release her. Not because I don’t want to hold onto her, but because I don’t feel like I have the right. I’d fucking love to keep my arm around her, but not if she doesn’t want me to.

But fuck it all, I apparently have no idea what this woman wants. I have no idea how to read her. I figured she was pissed at me for kissing her at all. It turns out she’s mad at me for acting like I rejected her.

Does that mean she welcomed my kiss?

But what about all those times she said she didn’t want a relationship right now?

What about you? The excoriating voice in my head chimes in. You said the same thing at least as many times. Remember?

So maybe she thought I regretted kissing her because she thought I didn’t want a relationship?

I’ve never been so grateful to get to my car in my entire life. I open the passenger door and wait for Marissa to climb in. She hesitates for just a second, standing in front of the open door and meeting my eyes. I’m not sure what she sees in my face, but it apparently convinces her to get inside.

Jogging around to the other side, I climb in as quick as I can, then just take a breath before pulling out my phone and alerting Molly to the likelihood she’ll need to do damage control. Part of me wants to finish the conversation here, in the car. But people might be following us. There might be paparazzi on their way here already.

I start the car and put on my blinker, waiting for traffic to clear so I can pull into the lane. Marissa’s staring out her window, not saying anything, and I’m torn between relief—because navigating through downtown traffic while having an emotionally charged conversation would be difficult—and frustration because she was finally talking to me again, and now she’s not.

“Do I need to take you back to your car?” I ask after a moment. I need to know which way to go. Otherwise, I guess I could just drive around for a while? But driving around in silence doesn’t seem like it would accomplish anything.

She settles back against the seat and lets out a sigh that speaks of bone-deep weariness, and I hate that I’ve inadvertently added to her burden.

She’s told me some about the guy she almost married—Peter. Even though she broke up with him several years ago, she still clearly bears the scars of that relationship. I privately swore to myself that, if nothing else, I wouldn’t be like that douchecanoe. And look at me? I’m hurting her every bit as much as he did.

Sure, not for as long. She put up with his bullshit for too many years—by her own admission.

But am I really much better?

He strung her along, letting her believe they were on the same page with where their relationship was going. Haven’t I basically been doing the same thing?

Sure, we weren’t physical—other than the cuddling that ended with a kiss. We were “just friends.”

But were we?

I’ve been spending way more time with her than any friend I’ve ever had before. She’s the first one I want to talk to when anything happens, whether good or bad. The only other people I’ve ever spent this much time with other than my parents is women I’ve been dating.

Have I been subconsciously treating her like my girlfriend while officially keeping her in the “friend” category this whole time? Has she been wanting more from me? Is that why she’s so hurt by my reaction to our kiss?

Would I want us to be more than friends? To slide from friendship into an actual relationship?

If everything could stay the same but I also get to kiss her? Hold her? Hold her hand when we’re out together? And more?

Hell, yeah. I’d be one hundred percent on board with that. I just didn’t even let myself dream that might be an option.

Women like Marissa don’t go for me. She’s too classy and perfect and polished. A princess, worthy of respect and adoration. She needs someone to cherish her. And as much as I’d love to be the lucky guy who gets to do that, I haven’t taken so many hits to the head that I’m dumb enough to think a smart, classy lady like her would go for a oaf like me.

“Can we just talk?” she says at last. “You can park somewhere. I dunno. I feel like if you take me back to my car, that’ll be the end of it, and …”

There are so many ways I can fill in the blank she leaves dangling. And we’ll never speak again. And I’m not ready for the night to be over. And … I miss you.

That’s all true for me. I don’t want to never speak to her again. I’m not ready for the night to be over. And god, I fucking miss her so much.

Swallowing the words trying to crowd their way out, I nod, driving away from downtown and getting on a freeway heading east. We’ll head toward the mountains. We can find somewhere to stop before then, but it’s away from town, and that’s what we both need right now.

“Where are we going?” she asks after a moment.

I shrug. “Not sure. Somewhere out of the way.” Glancing her way, I catch her head dip in a nod.

“Can we talk while you drive?”

I blow out a breath and drum my thumbs on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Traffic’s pretty light right now.”

“So …”

The awkward false start makes me grin, but I wipe away the smile as soon as it sprouts. I don’t want to piss her off more. “So …” I repeat, and when she chuckles, my grin comes back.

“God, have we ever had this much trouble talking before?”

I shake my head and clear my throat. “Not that I can remember.”

“Me either.” She sucks in a deep breath, turning to face me for the first time since we got in the car. “So what happened? That night, I mean. On your end.”

I blow out a harsh breath and shake my head, reviewing that night in my head for the millionth time, but this time pulling away the lens of regret I’ve been using to view it through since she hightailed it out of my place and never looked back. “I got scared,” I murmur.

“You kissed me because you got scared?”

“Ha. No.” I glance at her and roll my eyes, happy to see she’s smiling. There’s still wariness in her face, but there’s a smile too. That gives me hope. Swallowing the lump of nerves in my throat, I shake my head and refocus on the road, moving into the right lane and deciding not to care about passing anyone. If someone in front of me is going slow, I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere in particular, after all.

“No,” I repeat, “I kissed you because I wanted to. You were lying on my chest, and it felt so good to hold you. I’ve”—I hesitate, uncertain if I should finish what I was about to say, but I plow ahead because if any time demands total honesty, it’s this—“I’ve wanted to for ages. But we were friends. And you made it clear that all you wanted was to be friends. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or make you feel like I was just one of those assholes who pretends to be friends with a woman to get close to her and then gets mad when she doesn’t want to date him.”

She nods slowly. “So if I don’t want to date you? What then?”

I swallow, dread making my mouth dry. “Then … we don’t date. Obviously.” I force a laugh, but it sounds too loud. Too stupid. God, I’m stupid.

More nodding. “We’d still be friends, though?”

“If”—it comes out hoarse, and I pause to clear my throat—“if that’s what you want.” Clearing my throat didn’t help. The full sentence is as hoarse as the first word.

“What about you?” she asks, the words pointed. “What is it that you want?” When I don’t immediately respond, she keeps going. “Because yeah, you kissed me . But I kissed you back. I cuddled up to you, too. I didn’t have to do that. If I really wanted to make sure that we were both clear that our relationship was strictly platonic, I wouldn’t have accepted that invitation. I would’ve made myself comfortable on the other end of the couch.” She clears her throat, looking out the window and talking so quietly I struggle to hear her over the road noise. “I don’t cuddle with my other platonic friends like that. I can’t think of a time I ever have, either.”

“What are you saying?” I’m so confused now. Why even ask if I’d be okay with just being friends if she wants more than that? What is she getting at by bringing up that she kissed me back?

“I’m saying that you didn’t force anything onto me that I didn’t freely accept and reciprocate. And I’m not sure why you’ve been acting all along like you’re some monster who’s forced himself on me. Because that was why you reacted the way you did, isn’t it? You felt like you’d crossed a line or taken advantage and you wanted to walk it back but weren’t sure how?”

A trickle of relief enters my bloodstream. “Yeah. Kinda. I just … I didn’t want you to feel duped or tricked or taken advantage of.”

“I didn’t,” she says, turning to look at me again.

Hitting my blinker, I take the next exit. We’re far enough outside of Seattle proper that we should probably turn around soon or we’ll end up driving all night. “That’s, uh, that’s good.”

She lets out a humorless chuckle. “Right, so the apology?”

Turning, I pull into a gas station parking lot and put the car in park. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I wanted you to know we could just go back to being friends. I wanted to say all of that, but then you ran off, and I didn’t get the chance. So I texted an apology. With the way you ran off, I knew I’d made it weird. Made you uncomfortable. I knew I’d fucked everything up. And I was sorry about that. I fucking love spending the evenings with you, watching movies or sports highlights or listening to you talk about your cars. I didn’t want to lose that.”

She takes a deep breath and looks out the windshield for a moment before facing me again, her features cast in high relief by the harsh gas station lights. “You realize we’ve been basically dating this whole time, right?”