Page 27 of On the Edge

“I think you promised me dinner?” She sounds tentative, like she’s not sure what to say after the bathtub incident. But she doesn’t sound mad, which is a relief. Or is it? At least when she’s mad she’s showing some emotion rather than locking everything inside so I have to guess at how she’s feeling.

“Just keeping everything warm.” I turn to the counter behind me and grab the two dishes, still covered in the metal lids they arrived with when room service delivered them.

Jackson slides onto the barstool as I set the plate in front of her, and I have to bite my tongue not to mention how easily we’re falling into our old routine of me taking care of her. She picks at her mac and cheese, taking small bites and trying to pretend I’m not here while I devour my double veggie burger. After that workout followed by the yoga session, I was about to eat my own arm if she didn’t come out soon.

When my veggie burger is consumed and the silence has stretched on longer than is comfortable, I ask, “You want to talk about what just happened in there?” and nod toward the bathroom across the living area.

She meets my gaze for a millisecond, but that’s all it takes for me to see the heat flash in those emerald eyes, the desire not well enough masked. She looks back down at her food. “Not particularly.”

And that’s whenIknow. What I heard wasn’t the strangled sound of her calling my name in distress. It was the sound of her moaning my name. Which means that whatever she was doing in that tub, she was thinking of me ... of us. My body reacts to this realization before my mind even finishes wrapping itself around the idea. “Why not?” I ask, leaning a little closer to her.

“Why do I not want to talk about how you just invaded my privacy? How you picked me up, naked, out of my bath? Gee, Nate, why would Inotwant to talk about it? Maybe because it goes so far beyond the boundaries of our purely professional relationship? Maybe because it violates my boyfriend’s trust? Maybe becauseIfeel violated?”

And this is not going where I’d hoped it would go. She can’t even be honest with herself.

“I’m sorry. I really did think you called my name because something was wrong.”

“Well, I didn’t,” she says, her eyes flaring in defiance.

“Just so you know, I don’t believe you. But I’ll change the subject since you’re so obviously uncomfortable.” I drop my eyes to her chest as she heaves a sigh of relief. The top two buttons of her waffle knit T-shirt are open, revealing the smooth, olive skin below her neck. She has the softest skin I’ve ever felt, and my mouth is salivating at the need to remember the way she tastes. But that too will have to wait. “My dad wanted me to tell you he says ‘hello.’”

She levels her gaze at me, her face unreadable once again. I hate that she has the ability to do that now. That mask is not who she is, and wearing it is not something she was capable of back when we were dating.How did you learn to hide your emotions like that?I want to ask her. Necessity, most likely. I hate to think that I’m the cause, but it’s probably true.

“How is he doing?” It sounds like it pains her to ask. She looks away, spearing a few more pieces of pasta and taking another bite.

“He’s good. I mean, not great, but he’s doing okay. Throwing himself into work all the time.”

“Still in commercial real estate?”

“Yep,” I confirm. “He’s been after me to come work with him for years.”

“And you don’t want to?” She sounds genuinely curious.

“That’s not really the business I see myself in,” I say, unwilling to give her too many details about my own real estate investing business. There are too many variables up in the air right now. I want to wait until I’ve locked down my latest acquisition. I sure as hell hope she’s thrilled when she finds out, because the alternative is that she’ll never speak to me again. If I’m being honest, it worries me that I don’t know whether she’ll love it or hate it.

“I’m sure he just wants you closer,” she says. “Is he lonely?”

“You know my dad.” I shrug. “It’s not like we talk about his emotions.” That was always my mom’s role, and Jackson knows it.

“I’m so sorry, Nate. I can’t even imagine how much he must miss your mom.” She takes a quick drink of her water. “I mean, if how much I miss her is any indication ... I wish I could have been there to say goodbye.” Her voice is so filled with guilt and sadness.

“Don’t.” I stop her. “You have no reason to feel guilty. You had no control over what happened.”

“I don’t feelguilty, Nate.” The words are caustic, her eyes so cold it’s like she’s throwing frozen crystal daggers right at my heart. “I’m sad and I’m angry because you kept it from me how bad off she was. You left France to come back to Boston without even telling me, and then the next thing I know,” she says, then pauses to take a deep breath, “I wake up from a freaking coma, a week has gone by, and your mom has already been buried!” A tear escapes down one cheek and I turn fully toward her on my barstool, reaching out and using my thumb to wipe it away, but she swats my hand from her face. “You didn’t just leave me, Nate. You made it so I didn’t get to tell your mom how much I loved her. To thank her for being so amazing, for caring so much about me, for always being so supportive ...” She clearly has more she wants to say, but she stops, choking on the last words as she’s overcome with tears.

I reach over and rest my hand on the back of her barstool as she pushes her plate away from her, making room to fold her arms on the counter before dropping her head down on them.

“I didn’t know,” I say softly as I lean in toward her. I reach out and tentatively brush my hand over her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. “When I got on that plane, I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see her. I didn’t know there wouldn’t be an opportunity for you to say goodbye.”

“I would’ve come too,” she mumbles into her arms. “If you’d told me, I would have been on that plane with you.”

“I didn’t think she was at that point yet. I mean, all I knew was that they’d put her in the ICU, but it wasn’t the first time and there was no indication that she wouldn’t make it out again. And I didn’t want you to miss that race. You needed Val d’Isère to secure your first place standing for the season. Your dream—that overall World Cup trophy—was within reach. No way I was going to take that away from you.”

“Just so you know,” she says, turning her head and looking up at me. Her tearstained face is so close it’s a struggle not to cup her cheek in my hand, kiss away those tears. She sighs. “I would have come back to Boston with you. I would have skipped the race. And I wouldn’t have regretted it.”

“It’s easy to say that in hindsight, especially knowing now how that race ended.”

She jerks up to a full sitting position. “It’s easy to say thatin hindsightbecause it was true then too. Instead, you decided for me. You left, I raced, and we all know how that turned out.”

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