Page 72 of Tell Me You Love Me

I roll my eyes. “Salvageable, maybe. Not romantically.”

She scoffs.

“I mean, it is. For now. But ultimately, the best thing I can do is let him heal. Let him find someone else. What we’re doing is fun, but it’s not end-game for him. It can’t be.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Every single time.” A blush makes my cheeks hot and my stomach tingle. So I drop my gaze despite being here all alone. Well, except for Franky. “We do that… thing. And then I tell him no more. He laughs and says until next time.”

“And then there’s a next time,” she teases. “And another. And another. And another, until eventually, you look up and realize you’ve been together for months. Or years. And maybe you’re already living together. That’s when you look back and realize you’re already a couple, Alana.”

“I won’t let it happen.” I silence when the shop bell rings above the door, then swallow when I hearhisvoice. I feel his presence. I press my hands to the floor, almost as though expecting to feel the vibrationof his footsteps. “He won’t want me when he understands the whole truth,” I whisper. “And I won’t trick him, nor will I tell him. It would be cruel.”

“So, you say nothing and let him go the rest of his life not knowing?”

“Yep.” I slowly push to my feet and peek through the gaps in the shelves, finding him leaning on the desk by Franky, his elbows on the counter and a broad, playful smile transforming his face.

“I’ve gotta go, Fox. But I’ll talk to you later.” I wander away from my shelf, only to stop in my tracks when Tommy’s heated eyes swing my way. His hungry stare. His taunting gaze. He has this way of undressing me with just a look, of seeing inside my soul and uncovering my secrets with just a glance.

That’s why he’s so frustrated, I suppose. Because he can’t ferret out my last secret.

“Talk to you later, Fox.” I tap the side of my ear and end our call, then I pull my headphones out and hold them in my palm. Dammit, my eyes fall to his muscular legs and a girlish grin spreads across my lips. It’s like I’m a teenager again, and he’s the big, bad Tommy Watkins, challenging me in the lunchroom.

“Hey.” He sets his hands in his pockets and looks me up and down. “You look like you’ve been working hard.”

“We have,” Franky answers. “We’re relaunching the shop in a few days. Mom’s putting an ad in the paper after we’ve finished stacking all the books, and we’re gonna have a sale and fill the fridge with cupcakes and stuff.”

“Sounds like you’ve planned for success.” He tilts his head to the side. “Franky agreed to another game of chess later, out at your place, if you’re up for visitors.”

“Um—”

“I could bring steaks. You could make a salad. Chris could come, too, and we could see who the better chess player is.”

“It’s me,” Franky inserts dryly. “I’m the best. I already beat Chris the other day.”

With a smirk, Tommy hooks a thumb back at my son. “Arrogance in fighting means he’ll sweep the floor, or he’ll end up on it. Either way, you know I can’t back down from that kind of challenge.”

“Why do I feel like I’m sixteen again, and you’re asking me to host a party at my house?” Shaking my head, I wander a little closer. “I can already hear my mom screeching in my ears. Something about how I’m trashy and cheap and how it’s not her job to feed everyone else’s kids.”

“You could come to my place.” His smile grows wider. “That was always the backup, wasn’t it? Except now I’m an adult, and I don’t have to worry about what my dad will do when he gets home drunk.”

“I’m gonna live with my mom forever,” Franky declares. “Even when I’m a grown-up. She said I could, so long as I’m at school or working towards something for my future.”

“No bums allowed,” Tommy smirks. “I can get behind that.”

“You want us to come to your house?”Why am I so nervous? So anxious? So scared!“Where do you live?”

“You’ve been in Plainview forhow long,and you haven’t figured it out?” He tsks. “It’s like you’re not even trying, Lana.”

I purse my lips.

“I bought the Sanderson house a couple of years back.”

“Edwin? The one on the lake?”

“Mm.” He knows—he knows—my mind spins back a decade to the fence we forever snuck through because Edwin Sanderson’s private property was the gateway to some of the best parts of the lake.

“Did he cuss you out the day you exchanged contracts?” I snicker. “Bet he tacked more onto his asking price once he realized you were interested, purely to recoup the money he spent repairing the fence you cut through every other weekend.”

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