Page 71 of Chasing Wildflowers
Disappointment flashes across his face, but it’s gone just as quickly. “Hopefully. But even if the cameras didn’t catch a clear shot, we’ve got a description. They'll start running it against registered PI’s.”
“Good,” I murmur, fidgeting with the edge of my napkin. “That’s good.”
I mentally roll my eyes at myself. This man has literally been inside me, and now I can barely weave together a simple sentence.
He gives me a knowing smirk. “I’ve told you before, Lane. You don’t have to be nervous around me. I’m still the same guy I’ve always been.” He stands and starts gathering dishes, the silverware clinking softly against the glass plate in his hand. “I’m going to clean up for my Mom, but when I’m finished, do you want to watch a movie? We can even invite Kam and Miles.”
I want nothing more than to curl up next to him on the couch and pretend like everything’s okay. Every fiber of me aches for it. But I’m not ready, not yet. Not when my heart still hesitates, and the space between us feels too wide to bridge.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say softly, my eyes unwilling to meet his, and see the hurt that I know lingers there.
He nods, his movements strained. “Okay. If you need anything, just let me know.” He turns and walks into the kitchen, leaving me to stare after him.
My heart squeezes, pissed that I’m denying myself his company. But for right now, my head is still calling the shots, and it’s not ready to.
I’m not ready.
Thirty
Jameson
I breathe in the fresh country air as I lean against the porch railing. It’s crisp and clean, unlike the heavy, exhaust-laced air back in Brooklyn. Don’t get me wrong, I love the noise and energy of city life. But after these past few months in New Haven with Lane, I think it might be time for a quieter life.
The screen door opens with a soft protest, but I don’t look up. I don’t have to, I already know who it is.
“I wasn’t hiding from you.”
She scoffs, handing me a cup of her special lavender tea, the familiar floral scent wrapping around, offering a small comfort. “As if you could, child of mine.” She leans against the railing beside me, her own cup cradled in her hands. “I like Lane.”
“Yeah, me too.” I take a sip of the tea, letting its warm, flowery taste soothe me.
She cuts right to the chase. “Then why did you lie to her, Jameson? I know you wanted to protect her, but you took her choice away from her. Instead of letting her choose how to handle the situation, you chose for her.”
I stare down at the mug in my hand, its warmth seeping into my fingers, but it does little to calm the guilt gnawing at me. “I know I did. I just wanted her to keep the life she’s built,” I admit, my voice rough with emotion. “She’s worked so hard to get where she is. I don't want her to lose that.”
She’s quiet for a moment, the soft clink of her ring against her cup filling the silence. Her eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “She’s a lot stronger than you are giving her credit for, Son. She would have figured it out, with you. But you didn’t give her the chance.”
I nod slowly, letting her words sink in.
“There’s still something there worth fighting for. Don’t give up on her,” she says softly before kissing me on the cheek and walking into the house.
Her words hit me, heavy and sharp, and my chest tightens with guilt and longing.
I shake my head, exhaling slowly. I don’t plan on it. I plan on fighting for her; with every ounce of me, with everything I’ve got.
A knock pulls me out of sleep, yanking me away from the only place I can touch her right now. This better be fucking important.
I pull on a pair of boxers and stalk toward the door, ready to tell Miles to fuck off until morning. But when the door swings open, everything in me goes still.
Lane stands there, barefoot, wrapped in a silky green robe that barely grazes the tops of her thighs. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, her green eyes lifting to meet through long, thick lashes.
My chest tightens, making it hard to breath. The faint scent of her; floral, sweet, unmistakably her, drifts past me, pulling at something I can’t control.
“Baby,” I murmur softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Is it too late to change my mind?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Is it too late to change your mind about what Lane? The movie or us?” I ask, voice low and rough. “Because I don’t think you are knocking on my door at two AM to watch a movie.”
