Page 112 of Phishing for Love
The hint of a smile pulls at his lips, as if he knows the impossibility of my loose promise.
“Favorite season?”
“Summer.”
“And here I thought it would be winter.”
He throws his head back and laughs, the rich, deep sound drifting on the air to mingle with the sound of the rain outside. When he laughs, it’s like being handed an unexpected gift. One you appreciate all the more because it’s such a delightful surprise.
“Stereotyping me again, Miller?” he asks, still chuckling.
“It’s just so easy, Sinclair. Favorite color?”
“Green.”
He’s staring straight at me when he says it.
Huh. My eyes are green. Do I read something into it? His expression gives nothing away. I feel the thrum of nervous excitement.
“Favorite memory?” I ask, breaking the silence that’s engulfed us.
Aaron takes his time responding. I see his throat work as he fights whatever emotions are rising up. “A three-day road trip with my sister,” he answers at last.
My chest feels tight. Both our favorite memories include our sisters, both of them lost to us, just in different ways.
It hasn’t escaped my attention that there are no pictures of family or friends anywhere in the living room. I wrestle back the words hovering on my tongue: What about your family? Your mysterious sister who I can’t mention because it puts a terrible look in your eyes? The parents you never talk about? Your entire backstory I know nothing about?
For a fraction of a second, Aaron’s guard slips and I see something hurtle across his face. He shuts it down before I’m able to define it, but it’s as though, in that instant, he drew back the curtain to reveal something so raw and agonizing I feel the pain of it even from where I’m sitting.
And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I’ve seen that expression before, on someone else. The knowledge hovers on the edge of my subconscious, a fragment of a memory I can’t quite capture.
In an effort to pull us both away from all that sadness, I ask, “Favorite outing for a date?”
He takes another sip of his wine, sets the glass down, but continues to toy with the stem. “How is this relevant?”
How interesting that he recalls the details of our previous exchange as meticulously as I do.
I parrot his answer. “It’s relevant.”
A slow, lazy smile shapes his lips. A smile that feels like a cool finger tracing a leisurely path down my exposed skin. I shiver.
Softly, he says, “Why don’t you ask me the question you’re dying to ask?”
I fall into a fleeting moment of speechlessness. It’s disturbing how well he knows me. “What happened with Ashley at the restaurant? Why did you break up with her?”
His broad, tanned hand continues to play with his wine glass. I imagine that hand playing with me. With my heart.
“She wanted to take our relationship to the next level. I didn’t,” he replies in an even voice. “She asked if she could move in with me. I said no.” His eyes lock on mine. “It wasn’t my intention to break up with her in public, but she demanded an answer, so I gave her one.”
“And she freaked out.”
“She freaked out,” he confirms. “Unfortunately, you were there to witness it.”
Now I’m the one playing with my wine glass. I still have one burning question—Was it just her or are you taking no relationships to the next level?—but even my tactless self acknowledges Aaron’s tolerance can only be pushed so far before he puts up a wall. Unfortunately, my too-personal line of questioning has hit that wall.
“My turn.” There’s a strange tension in his voice. “Did Nathan send you the bouquet of flowers?”
“Yes.”
