Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(76)

“Thank you.” Pure gratitude is written all over his face. Unexpectedly, his hand brushes my kneecap under the table. It’s the lightest touch, but the warmth of his fingers sends a flurry of sparks dancing through me.

“Everything will be okay.”

His eyes catch mine again, and I’m lost in them until my phone has the nerve to vibrate on the table, rattling the silverware.

It’s Daniel.

    Hey, Tara. I am SO sorry. I’ll probably be at the office all night. Huge project. Can we postpone?



Logically, I should feel angry. Betrayed. Sad. But Trevor’s presence cushions the fall. If I know myself like I think I do, the pain will hit me later, once I’m at home. Alone. In my bed.

Trevor winces, plucking my phone from my fingers. He turns it facedown on the table. “You’re not gonna reschedule, are you?”

“I mean, I can’t fault him for working—”

“Forget about him,” he urges. “Your soul mate isn’t gonna stand you up.”

My cheeks burn at his declaration. “He’s my last ex.”

Trevor’s hard expression softens. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

I try to brush it off by smoothing my finger over the base of my wineglass. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would.”

I have enough self-awareness to acknowledge my tendency to overanalyze, obsess, and draw grand conclusions based on completely innocuous clues. But as I note his stiff-backed posture against the chair, his hand in a fist on the tabletop, the clench of his jaw, and our weird moment in the changing room, I’m certain there’s something behind this.

I mimic his posture and his stare, holding it for a few frantic heartbeats. Bright-red fire truck warning sirens in my head be damned. I polish off the rest of my wine and go for it.

“Trev?”

“Mm-hmm?” he asks casually, oblivious to what’s coming.

I rest both forearms on the table, my hands folded. “I’m about to ask you something, and you need to be two hundred percent honest with me, okay?”

He shifts farther against the chair, his Adam’s apple dipping. “I take it it’s not about what I ate today, is it?”

“No.”

“Tara. Don’t.” His eyes plead with me, like he knows what I’m about to ask. And like a child who’s been told not to touch the button, I have no choice but to do so.

“Is there something . . .” I gesture to the space between us. “Going on here?”

His gaze shifts to the guy whose date peaced out. He’s most certainly eavesdropping on our conversation while he polishes off his spaghetti Bolognese. Trevor’s jaw clenches, and he eyes me as if silently warning me.

“Please,” I beg, lowering my quivering voice. “You’ve been acting weird lately and I’m confused. I know I’m probably just reading into things . . . but I just need a yes or no. And I swear I’ll never ask again.”

He watches me, silent, and I can see the gears turning in his head. On the plus side, he hasn’t said no. That has to count for something.

As I wait with bated breath, my senses tunnel to him. I don’t hear the classical music. The murmur of conversation around us. I don’t even register Rogan’s presence right away when he brings the bill, saving Trevor from my burning question.

I reach to snatch the debit machine, but Trevor gets it first, tapping his card before I can protest. Surely he’s paying out of pity, to soften the blow.

We’re stone silent the entire drive home in some unspoken face-off.

Who will crack first? Who dares to be the first to speak? Certainly not Trevor, who’s gripping the steering wheel so hard, I’m afraid he might rip it right off the console. The entire climb up the stairwell to our unit is much the same, with only the echo of our footsteps to quell the silence.

It isn’t until Trevor closes the door behind us that I lose it.





? chapter twenty-seven


MY FIRST ORDER of business when we return home: update the ex-boyfriend board.

My lips quiver at the finality of striking Daniel’s name out. The very last name. Though if I’m being honest, I’m not convinced it’s the sole cause of my disappointment.

When I head back into the kitchen, Trevor is still in his winter gear, his eyes wide. He’s tracked slush onto the floor, which is horrifically off-brand for him. When he sees the devastation in my eyes, he folds me into a full-body embrace. I sink against his chest, defeated.

He pulls back to study my face, which is twisted into an ugly cry. His fingers tremble against my cheek as he brushes my tears away. “Don’t cry, please,” he whispers as his lips lightly brush my cheek like the harshest tease, as if kissing away my tears. Taking my pain, built up over the past four months.

Trevor is a walking sign that reads Do Not Enter, wrapped twelve times over in cautionary tape. I know this, and yet I barge through, lifting my chin, brushing my lips to his. It’s the lightest illicit touch.

A rush flows down my back when I feel his body stiffen against me, as if he’s just realized that the carefully constructed fortress around his heart has been breached.

“Am I actually crazy? Am I imagining all of this?” I ask again.

“Tara . . . No.”