Page 27 of Unless It's You
She turns to me. “I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman. This bucket list is simply manipulative. She’s taking out her own life regrets—ones I didn’t even realize she had—onme.It’s not fair.”
Noted. There’s something like hurt in Stella’s face. Betrayal. Still, the way she’s handling this doesn’t sit right.
“You obviously loved your great-aunt, and she loved you enough to do this for you.” I try to soften my voice.
“It was for her, not for me.”
“What if this changes how you remember her? Won’t you feel guilty? Regretful about cheating on something so important?”
What I would give to have had my mum care about me like this. I would never cheat on a bucket list from her. Stella will regret it forever.
“Why do you care so much if I cheat?” She spins toward me and crosses her arms across her chest. Girl is still wearing her high heels. Heels. At a zoo.
“Because someone loved you enough to write a bucket list for you.” I clamp my mouth shut before I reveal too much, before the lump in my throat makes my voice squeaky.
Stella flinches but doesn’t uncross her arms. Her eyes are filled with tears, and her expression softens at my words. “I know she loved me,” Stella whispers.
“It’s disrespectful to cheat. Just do the list. Take it seriously. I can help, Hart.”
Her face contorts and her lips settle in a tight line, but her eyesare shining. Fuck, I don’t want to make her cry, but she has to understand how fucked up this is. I can keep pushing. I can make her do things my way, can’t I? But she’s digging her heels in—figuratively—and the last thing I want to do is make Stella Hart hate me again, if she ever stopped. I swallow hard.
We engage in a staring contest, which lasts for thirty seconds, until her face falls and she sighs deeply. Stella opens her mouth to say something, then slams it shut again. Finally, she speaks.
“I’ve gotta stop back there to fill out the paperwork.” She nods her head the way we came.
“Okay, let’s do it.” She’ll regret it, but I’ll be there for her.
“I can finish today on my own.”
It’s a punch to the gut. But if she doesn’t want me there with her, I’m not going to force it. I nod. “I’ll see you at the office sometime,” I say, my tone far colder than I’d intended.
She nods her head once and strides away from me.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I need to get my brain—and my body—under control when I’m around Stella.
11
STELLA
BUCKET LIST DAY 4
The flat door slams behind me and I stand in my dimly lit kitchen. I hate how things went with Ethan at the zoo. As if I don’t feel bad enough already about cheating on Evelyn’s bucket list. I know it makes me a terrible person. I know my great-aunt would hate what I’m doing. I let out a small sob and cover my face with my hands. But him being so judgmental is making it even worse.
And why can’t he call me by my freaking name? ThatHartbullshit is driving me up a wall.
We had some... moments this week. Good moments. Between yesterday at the office with our unexpected bonding over the Unless Game, and then that touch in the kitchen.Lord, that touch.And today. I was looking forward to spending time with him, even though I’d dreaded telling him about the list. Sweet baby Jesus, I can NOT tell him about theFind the One that Got Awaybucket list item.
It was a terrible idea for me to let him be my advisor.
A groan slips out of my throat, and I pour a glass of red wine from the open bottle on my counter. Alcohol would have made the zoo trip so much better. Why didn’t I think of that? But the wine tastes stale and cheap. When did I open it, anyway? Last weekend, when I was recovering from jet lag? I push the glass away and splay my hands on the counter, tapping my pointer fingers on the linoleum.
I want to forget about the way his hard chest felt pressed against my back in the kitchen yesterday, how I wanted to lean back further into him. Definitely not thinking about how my hand felt resting on his arm at the zoo, before things went wrong. Not about the way he was actually kind to me. Smiled at me. The way he called it ourbucket list date.
Absolutely not. I don’t need that guy. I don’t need anyone.
Idoneed to write an email to Stuffy Richard, to see if my plan to get this done in the required timeframe will get through his approvals. Screw the squirrelly feeling of guilt that’s making the wine curdle in my stomach like spoiled milk. I open my laptop on the counter and type.
To:Richard Ramsey
