Page 87 of Monochrome Without You
“Yes!” Tate bounces on his toes before racing for the front door.
Jules might be painting and processing, but me? I’ve found my purpose. And I’m going to see it through to the end.
***
“Where are we going?” Jules asks, carefully adjusting the silky black skirt around her knees in the passenger seat.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, trying—and failing—not to look. Not to remember how those thighs felt under my hands. Warm, soft, inviting. My throat goes dry.
“It’s a surprise,” Tate reminds her from the backseat, his voice full of excitement. “We already told you this.”
Jules tucks an auburn curl behind her ear, refusing to look at me. Guess she’s still not ready to address what happened after Tate’s birthday party. She can keep avoiding it, but eventually, she’s going to run out of places to hide.
“You’ll like it,” I promise, shifting the car into drive and pulling onto the road. “It’s a bit of a drive, so settle in.”
“I thought we talked about getting pizza or something… simple?” Her voice is quiet, uncertain.
I glance over. She’s staring out the window, body turned fully away from me, putting as much distance between us as possible.
I exhale through my nose. “Are you going to avoid looking at me all night?” The words come out softer than I expect.
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer.
Then, she says, “I don’t know.”
I nod once, gripping the wheel a little harder. “I know we talked about pizza,” I clear my throat, keeping my voice even, “but I think this will be just as fun.”
Jules lets out a scoff. “You don’t have fun, Corbin.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Finally—finally—she looks over at me, skepticism clear in those hazelnut eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I shrug, turning on the radio. “Ye of little faith.”
She sighs, exasperated. “Seriously, where are we going?”
“And you say I’m no fun,” I tease, sneaking a glance at her.
She’s still looking at me.
Our eyes lock—for just a second—before I have to turn back to the road. But it’s enough. Enough to send a pulse of something sharp and electric through me.
“I just don’t get why you won’t tell me,” she pushes. “Why does it have to be a secret?”
“It’s not a secret,” I correct, smirking. “It’s a surprise.”
“What’s the difference?” she challenges, amused.
“A secret is something you keep from someone indefinitely,” I explain. “A surprise is something you keep from someone for a little while. Big difference.”
Jules lets out an easy, light laugh, shaking her head. “You’re really not going to tell me.”
I grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to reach over, to take her hand in mine like I used to.
I miss this. Not just what happened in her kitchen. Not just the heat between us.
I missthis.
