The Mistake (Off-Campus #2)(47)

“There’s nothing to make right. We barely know each other, Logan. We were just fooling around, and honestly, I’m not interested in starting that up again.”

“I don’t want to fool around.” I exhale in a rush. “I want to take you out on a date.”

She looks amused.

Goddamn it. Amused. As if I’ve just told her a humdinger of a joke.

“I mean it,” I insist. “Will you go on a date with me?”

Grace is quiet for a moment, then says, “No.”

As disappointment clenches in my stomach, she tucks her book in her shoulder bag and takes a step away.

“I have to go. My dad and I are going out for lunch soon, and he’s waiting for me at home.”

“I’ll walk you,” I say instantly.

“No, thanks. I can make it there all by my lonesome.” She pauses. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Oh, hell no. There’s no way I’m letting it end this way, all cold and impersonal, as if we’re nothing more than acquaintances who bumped into each other on the street.

When I fall in step alongside her, she grumbles in annoyance. “What are you doing? I told you I don’t need you to walk me home.”

“I’m not walking you home,” I answer cheerfully. “I happen to be going in that direction.”

She points to the trail. “Your friends went that way.”

“Yup. And I’m going this way.”

Her cheeks hollow as if she’s grinding her teeth, and then she mumbles something under her breath. It sounds like, “the one day I forget to bring my iPod.”

Perfect. That means she can’t ignore me by listening to music.

“So you’re having lunch with your dad? Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

She doesn’t answer and promptly picks up her pace.

I lengthen my strides to keep up. “Hey, we’re already walking in the same direction. No harm in passing the time by making conversation.”

She spares me a cursory glance. “I’m dressed up because my mother spent way too much money on this dress, and my paranoid brain thinks that if I don’t wear it she’ll somehow be able to sense it, even though she’s all the way in Paris.”

“Paris, huh?”

She responds in a grudging tone. “I spent the summer there.”

“So your mother lives in France? Does that mean your parents are divorced?”

“Yes.” Then she scowls at me. “Stop asking me questions.”

“No prob. Do you want to ask me some?”

“Nope.”

“Okeydokey. I’ll keep being the question-asker then.”

“Did you just say okeydokey?”

“Yup. Was that adorable enough to change your mind about that date?”

Her lips twitch, but the laugh I’m waiting for doesn’t come. Instead, she falls silent again. And walks even faster.

We’re on a street parallel to Hastings’ downtown core, passing several quaint storefronts before the area goes from commercial to residential. I patiently wait for Grace to get tired of the silence and say something, but she’s more stubborn than I thought.

“So what’s with the hair? Not that I don’t like the new color. It suits you.”

“Also my mother’s doing,” Grace mutters. “She decided I needed a makeover.”

“Well, you look great.” I shoot her a sidelong look. Christ, she looks more than great. I’ve been walking with a semi since we left the park, unable to stop admiring the way her dress flutters around her thighs with each step she takes.

We reach a stop sign and she veers to the right, her pace quickening as we turn onto a wide street lined with towering oak trees. Damn it. Her house must be close.

“One date,” I urge softly. “Please, Grace. Give me a chance to show you I’m not a total dick.”

She gazes at me, incredulous. “You humiliated me.”

Four months’ worth of guilt slams into me. “I know.”

“I was ready to have sex with you, and you didn’t just reject me—you told me you were using me as a distraction. So you wouldn’t have to think about the person you actually wanted to have sex with!” Her cheeks turn bright red. “Why would I ever want to go out with you after that?”

She’s right. There’s absolutely no reason for her to give me another chance.

My stomach hurts as she brushes past me. She heads for the front lawn of a pretty house with a white clapboard exterior and wraparound porch, and I feel even queasier when I notice a gray-haired man on the porch. He’s sitting on a white wicker chair, a newspaper on his lap as he watches us from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Shit, that’s probably Grace’s father. Groveling in front of an audience is bad enough, but doing it in front of her father? Fucking brutal.

“What about everything before that?” I call out after her.

She turns to face me. “What?”

“Before that night.” I lower my voice when I catch up to her. “When we went to the movies. And the water tower. I know you liked me then.”

Grace releases a tired-sounding breath. “Yeah. I did.”

“So let’s focus on that,” I say roughly. “On the good parts. I f*cked up, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. I don’t want anyone else. All I want is another chance.”