Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(92)

“A little,” I say, bumping her shoulder lightly. “He said falling in love isn’t about who makes you feel the best, but who could make you the most miserable if they leave.” I swipe the side of my hand across my wet cheek. “Which is basically what I told myself every day before I met him.”

“Is that still how you feel?” Lola asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t think he really believes it, either.”

Lola toys with a tiny sapphire pendant around her neck that I’m pretty sure was a recent gift from Oliver. “So tell him.”

“It’s so scary,” I say.

“Sometimes scary can be good. He said he loves you. He’s yours now, don’t you get that? You’re the one person who can be with Luke anytime you want.”

An explosion of fireworks goes off in my chest at the revelation.

He’s mine now.

I’m the one person—the only person—who can see him every hour, of every day.

If he’ll forgive me.

Lola continues, oblivious to the thunder going off inside me. “Or pull a Harlow and show up on his doorstep wearing nothing but a trench coat. Simple, but effective.”

“As hilarious as I suspect his reaction would be, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

“I’m just watching you freak out on about a hundred different levels right now, aren’t I?”

Laughing now, I sniffle and say, “Yes.”

“If this helps you sort through what’s going on up here,” she says, motioning to the laptop before tapping my forehead, “then finish up. Email the brewery guy—because that’s for London, and London only—and then call Luke.”



* * *



I WORK ON the final touches to Lola’s site while I work up the nerve to talk to Luke. It takes a while . . . I’m not used to having to reach out, apologize, and ask for something like this.

Finally, I close my laptop when there isn’t any other work to be done. His number is at the top of my recent calls list, and I take a breath before pressing his name.

His phone doesn’t ring, and instead goes straight to voicemail.

With a hollow ache in my stomach, I make a few more calls, leaving a message for Jason, the guy who owns the brewery. But with nothing else to distract me from my moping, Lola suggests I run to the grocery store. We’re out of milk and bread and Lola’s favorite yogurt—all things we could go at least a few more days without—but when I open the bathroom cupboard and notice we’re down to the last roll of toilet paper, I admit defeat, grabbing my keys and heading out the door.

Lola and I used to do the grocery shopping together, but with work and deadlines sucking up most of our free time, we’ve started dividing it up. This time Lola’s made me a list, knowing that in my current frame of mind I’ll probably roam the aisles and end up at home with a trunk full of Lean Cuisines and wine.

I’m halfway through the list when my phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I frown down at it, before realizing it could be Jason, returning my call.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey, Logan.”

I pull the phone away and blink down at the number again. “Luke?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I . . . I wondered if you could talk for a few minutes.”

“Um . . .” I look around me, still confused about where he’s calling from. “Sure.”

“First, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and—”

I stop in the middle of the produce aisle, interrupting. “I don’t want you to apologize, I shouldn’t have said that. It was terrible. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “I understand where it came from. I know we have some things to talk over, and I was wondering if we could do that? If you’d be willing to do that.”

“I’d like to talk,” I tell him, my heart beating so hard I can barely form a response. “But what I—” I’m interrupted by a voice screeching through the intercom overhead. I wince at the sound, and then again when it seems to reverberate back to me, through the line.

“Wait, where are you—?”

“Are you—?” we both say, before a throat clears behind me.

It’s him. My pulse is a hammer in my neck.

I look down at my phone and then back up again, before finally ending the call and slipping it back into my bag.

“I’m so confused,” I finally admit, laughing.

“I came downtown to talk to you,” he says. “Figured I’d grab a few things while I worked out what I wanted to say.”

“Oh.” I wonder if this is part of the change Lola was talking about: that Luke—who barely answered texts before, let alone phone calls—would rather have an actual conversation with me than the impersonal blips of text messages.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Luke takes a step closer and loops his arm around my waist, lifting me off the ground as he pulls me into a hug. He smells like soap and shampoo and I’m incapable of doing anything but cling to him. When he presses his face into my neck and groans, I feel the sound all the way down my body and between my legs.

“So am I.” He sets me down gently, and places a kiss on my forehead. “Hand me your phone.”