Page 40 of Can't Always Get What You Want

The truth is, though, there’s only so much I’m willing to hear before I reach my limit.

If she genuinely wants me to leave her alone—to back off, delete her number, erase the idea of her from every little space she’s taken up in my life—I will.

As I study her face, the tension in her jaw changes along with a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way she keeps shifting like she’s trying to outrun the weight of the moment.

So I lay it out there; ask her straight: “Nova, what do you actually want from me?”

She blinks, caught off guard.

“I’m serious,” I say. “No sarcasm. No dodging the question. Just tell me the truth. What do you want from this? Fromme?”

She stares into my face.

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “That’s part of my problem.”

“Then tell me what youdoknow.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she lets out a breath, shaky but real.

“I know I like being around you. I know I find you attractive. I know this is risky and complicated and messy—but it doesn’t feel wrong.”

Because it’s not.

Nova is not afraid ofme. She’s afraid of what it could mean to want something for herself. Afraid of screwing things up. Of Gio finding out.

She’s projecting her brother’s bullshit behavior onto me. He casts a long shadow—one she’s been living under it for a long time.

Makes me sad, kind of.

“Can we take your brother out of the equation for a minute?”

Her eyes snap up, wary. But she doesn’t pull away.

“I mean it,” I say. “Not because he doesn’t matter. I know he does. But this thing—whatever it is, whatever it could be—shouldn’t be about him.”

She swallows. Hard.

“This is aboutyouandme,” I continue. “And whether or not we want to try. Not Gio. Not his approval. You’re an adult woman who can make her own decisions.”

Easier said than done.

I realize that.

But still, I had to say it.

Nova doesn’t respond right away; I can see the battle going on in her head as she marinates on my words.

“What’s it going to take to get you to date me?”

Her eyes flick to mine, wide.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Just sex? A secret relationship? Me pretending I don’t care?” I lower my voice as the server sets down our appetizer then moves away. “I want the real thing. But I need to know—do you?”

Her nod—if you can call it that—is slow. Still, it’s there.

“Yes.”

It’s quiet. Barely audible.

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