Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(41)

“But I saw you there, and wanted to talk to you.”

Ansel nods once, a clear So go ahead and talk gesture.

“I was a complete dick the other night. I want to apologize.”

His dark brows shoot up and his head jerks back slightly, telling me this isn’t what he expected me to say.

“I knew Mia was with someone,” I tell him, “and I knew that she’d moved on. I mean,” I quickly add, “I had, too, of course. But I didn’t know she was married. It threw me.”

He nods, but his expression remains unreadable. “I can understand that.”

“Still, I was a little surprised by my own reaction when we met.” I smile. “Because it would be crazy to still have baggage over a girl four years later, right?”

He laughs, eyes relaxing somewhat. “Maybe not,” he admits. “We are talking about Mia here. I might have baggage a century later.”

This makes me laugh a little, too. “Fair enough.”

His smile straightens. “And we’re talking about a very traumatic time for both of you, no? You were together for a very long time, and then she nearly died.”

I feel like I’m punched in the stomach anytime I think about that day: the call from Harlow, my frantic drive to the hospital, pacing the waiting room for the entire fourteen hours she was in surgery. And it never really got better. It was the worst thing I could have ever said to her but no matter how much I regret it, it still feels true: It feels like the girl I loved died under that truck.

“She needed someone after the accident, and it wasn’t me,” I tell him, realizing—maybe for the first time—how true it is. “It really is that simple.”

He nods, blinking away and over my shoulder. “At any rate, there’s nothing you need to fix with me,” he says. “I know that those memories cause Mia pain and she feels like she’s lost someone in her family because she doesn’t know you anymore. I’ve learned from experience that it’s never a good idea to try to move on and pretend nothing ever happened.” His easy smile from the other night returns, and I find myself thankful; his professional expression is so much more intense. “You should come over for dinner sometime. We have an amazing new house and Mia is dancing again—she is very happy. She would love to see you there.”

With a pat to my shoulder, he moves past me down the path.



* * *



BY THAT NIGHT I need to get out of the house. Dylan texts just as I’m leaving to grab some soyriza nachos and when he asks if I want to meet up, I can’t think of a single reason to say no. I’m not really in the mood for the whole club scene, but as much as I want to see London, I can’t bring myself to go to Fred’s, either. There’s a fine line between hanging out to flirt with someone who may or may not return your interest, and being pathetic. I feel like I’m dangerously close to that line.

We meet up at Clove—a newer club I’ve only been to a few times—and unless London has obtained a third job, I assume she won’t be there to overhear me acting like a total and complete dick.

We find a table near the bar and have a few drinks, and by the time Daniel and Andrew meet up with us I’m feeling pretty good. The music is great, the girls are hot, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s a long-legged brunette in the corner who definitely seems to be paying me some attention.

I can feel her watching me, our eyes meeting for just a moment when I glance over Andrew’s shoulder. I blink away, hoping it looks like I’m just sweeping my gaze across the room. I’m split entirely down the middle. On the one hand, a good f*ck tonight would be amazing for distraction. And also because sex? Is good. But the other half of me still feels a touch of hesitation over the remote possibility of London turning into something good. I wonder if maybe I should have gone to Fred’s after all. I want to go back and poke at her, tease her, find that easy rhythm we had. I hate feeling like the only way I can talk to her is if we’re going to fool around. I prefer the idea that she was right, that I don’t need my dick out for someone to like me.

The brunette works her way through the crowd, and once she’s within a few feet of me, we make eye contact again and I know there isn’t an easy way to escape this without being a total jerk.

“Hey,” she says, and then perches her straw between her glossy pink lips.

“Hi.”

“Having a good night?” she asks.

I nod, giving her my easy smile. “Pretty good.”

She tilts her head and holds my gaze for several breaths. “I’m glad you’re here.”

My brows go up. “I’m . . . glad I’m here, too.”

I expect her to give me her name, to ask me to dance, to do anything but say what she does: “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Do I—?” What?

“Yeah,” she says, biting down on her straw. “My place.”

I blink, hard. I mean, even for me, that’s fast. But adrenaline dumps in my veins and I become someone familiar, someone less complicated, reflexively relaxing at the prospect of bending her over the bed and f*cking her until I forget London’s name. I nod, putting my beer down on a cocktail table behind me and taking her offered hand.

I feel good.

This is good.

This is easy.