More Than I Could (47)

I burst out laughing.

“You’re killing me here, Megs.”

“If we were in another time and place, I’d totally consider you doable,” I say. “You’re cute.”

“Cute? Kill me now.”

I continue to laugh. “Stop it, Gav.”

Tucker walks by the table. “I think you’re cute, Gavin.”

“Fuck off, Tucker.”

He walks away, his belly bouncing as he chuckles.

“Fine.” He sits up and straightens his shirt. “I’m still offended, but I’ll let it slide.”

“Thanks. Now, why does Chase care?”

Gavin’s antics stop, and a coyness creeps across his features. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse for me.

My heart beats faster the longer Gavin goes without talking. He becomes more smug. More arrogant. More entertained by this line of conversation. And while that worries me, I can’t back out now because I want to know the answer.

I’m well aware that Chase is attracted to me. He’s outright admitted it. But he’s also been clear that it doesn’t matter and has maintained a distance between us like it’s his job. Ensuring that nothing happens between us.

If that’s the case, why would it bother him if I hooked up with his brother?

“You know, I like the power I wield in this chat,” Gavin says.

I wad up a napkin and throw it at him. He catches it quickly and laughs. Then he tosses it on the table.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says. “How is a girl like you even available in the first place, anyway?”

“Oh, there are many reasons.”

“Such as …”

I mirror his posture and rest back in my chair too. “Well, the last guy I dated continued to use the dating app I met him on well after we were supposed to be exclusive.”

“Yeah, I’m not into dating apps. It feels like you’re auditioning for a role. Like, ‘Hi, here are my stats. Am I good enough to fuck, date, or marry?’” He snorts. “I don’t need that kind of pressure.”

“Same.”

“What about the guy before that?” he asks.

I sigh. “Let’s see. The guy before that worked all the time. I don’t mean long hours. I mean, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. If he wasn’t at the office, he was thinking about being at the office. And the guy before that was a jealous bastard. That didn’t last long.”

A parade of the men I’ve dated marches through my head. Each of them leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I can’t remember being in a relationship with any of them where I felt comfortable. None of them felt like they were made for me.

Which is probably why I dated them.

“I have this nasty habit,” I say.

“Like what? You’re scaring me.”

I giggle. “Not like that. I just have this habit of choosing to date men I know are bad for me.” I try to find an example to help him understand. “Okay. There was this guy named Peter. In retrospect, he probably could’ve been a decent match. He had a good job, was sweet, and loved what I did for a living. And I refused to date him.”

“Why?”

“It’s a character flaw of mine,” I say. “If something has long-term potential, I run like the wind.”

“You make absolutely no sense, my friend.”

I take another drink. “Oh, I know.”

“What is your reasoning? What makes you the way you are?”

I cross my arms over my chest and exhale.

Why am I the way that I am? What a damn question.

My mouth goes dry. What is it with these Marshall men and their ridiculous questions?

“Is it one of those self-loathing things?” he asks.

“No, not really,” I say slowly. “It’s more of a … it’s more of an unsettledness in my soul, if that makes any sense.”

His forehead wrinkles. “So you want to be secure before you build a relationship? You want the job and house and to do all of that on your own first? Is that what it is?”

I sigh. “Not really. It’s hard to explain.”

“They say if you can’t explain it to a child, then you don’t understand it yourself.”

“That might very well be true.”

He grins. “No, it’s not. Tell me.”

“Gavin …”

I groan, trying desperately not to get sucked into the vortex surrounding him—the whirlpool that strips you of your defenses and makes you vulnerable to his charm. Dammit.

Like I have no choice—because I don’t—I find myself trying to make him understand.

“I don’t want to commit,” I say. “I don’t want to put myself out there.”

“Fair. But why?”

“I don’t know.” My skin suddenly feels too tight. The room is too small. I tug on the bottom of my shirt to get more air against my body. “I guess it’s that when I commit, or anyone commits, for that matter, you’re trusting them not to hurt you.”

My words fall between us. I don’t know what Gavin assumed I was going to say. But I don’t think this is it.

His playfulness melts away, and soberness replaces it.