Page 42 of The Shot You Missed
Sebastian watches me as we walk. He’s lucky he’s so tall and bulky because people move out of his way instinctively, and no one bumps into us. I’d have been trampled ten times over if I just walked through a crowd, oblivious to everyone else around me.
Well, not everyone. He’s focused pretty intently on me, which I don’t understand.
“Indie, when I say I’ve been looking for something specific, I mean that?—”
“Oh, look! Is that the chocolatier you were talking about?” I point to a booth full of cute little boxes and display cases stocked tightly with pretty chocolates that look more like fine art than snacks. I can’t hear him describe someone I’ll never be.
His sigh is deep and long. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s them. Come on. We can get whatever you want.”
By the time we walk out of the farmer’s market, Sebastian’s hands are full of bags. He won’t let me carry any. We have cheeses, bread, fruits and veggies, a bottle of wine, and way too many chocolates to eat in one sitting.
Conversation has moved away from our respective dating lives, and we laugh and joke with each other, but underneath all of it is the deepening understanding that I never have, and neverwill, come close to being what the boy I loved as a girl and still feel all too much for as a woman is looking for.
I knew this. Of course I did. But you can’t write romance novels without being slightly delusional and overly inclined to believe that even the quirky side characters are one meet-cute away from finding their own true loves.
Unfortunately, even if he’s mine, it’s crystal clear that I’m not his. What’s less clear is if I’m strong enough to be his friend despite all that.
Time will tell, I suppose.
fifteen
SEBASTIAN
I wasan idiot to think Indie would give me an opening to bring up what happened ten years ago or how I feel now. The woman is infuriatingly adept at changing the subject every time I get close to moving the conversation in that direction. I could swear I’ve caught her looking at me with the same kind of longing I have for her, but then she shuts me down, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it.
“This place is magical,” she says, her pretty hazel eyes wide as she takes in the massive sculptures around us. The grass isn’t fully green yet—there are still patches of brown that haven’t awoken from the long winter—but that hasn’t stopped people from stretching out on the vast lawn on blankets, jackets, or directly on the grass.
I follow behind her as she wanders through the grounds, experiencing it all with fresh eyes. Hers. She lingers near the more abstract sculptures with her head cocked slightly to the side, as though the smallest change in perspective will reveal the artists’ secrets. But while she tries to reveal secrets carved into stone or bent into metal, I’m studying her.
Indigo Rose Bloom is more mesmerizing and mysterious than any sculpture here. More beautiful too. The way her pink hair floats in the breeze. The sway of her full hips as she walks the grounds. I know she’s always been self-conscious about her body, but she shouldn’t be. Every soft curve has been lovingly and artfully created. The swell of her breasts and the dip of her waist offer symmetry ancient civilizations used to worship. The delicious curve of her ass could inspire sonnets.
Fuck. If I could hunt down every single asshole who wrote the abusive lies she was forced to withstand from the moment she hit puberty, I would. The woman in front of me should walk through the world with her chin high and confidence in every single step. She shouldn’t flinch when she brings up the women I’ve dated in ill-advised bids to forget her. Because those women—while beautiful and interesting—could never come close to dulling the memory of Indie and the way she made me feel.
Did she guess what I was going to say, and that’s why she stopped me? Did she guess I was going to tell her that the specific thing I was looking for was her? Or are those deep-seated insecurities taking their toll? Either way, I need to find a way to tell her how I feel. How much I’ve missed her.
I can’t let her go back to her life in California without laying it all out there, even if she rejects me in the end.
“Is that a big blue cock?” Her giggle infuses my blood with a fizzy lightness.
“It’s a big blue rooster, yeah.”
“I’m a romance writer. It’s a cock.” She laughs again, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from reaching out and pulling her back against my chest.
“So what you’re saying is that your mind is always in the gutter.”
She shrugs, mischief etched into her smile. “Pretty much.”
“Good to know. You’ll get along well with Griffin.”
“Does anyonenotget along well with him?”
I chuckle, because she has a point. “Very few people. Do you know he reads romance novels? He’d probably talk your ear off about it if you gave him the chance. And the ladies have a book club. Pretty sure they only read romance. You and Lola should join them while you’re here.”
“Maybe,” Indie says before sucking her lower lip between her teeth.
I’ll have to put a bug in Isla’s ear to invite Indie and Lola. I’m not above using my friends to give Indie reasons to extend her stay here. Maybe even tempt her to stay forever.
“The giant spoon and cherry sculpture is the one most people come for.” I lead her toward the small body of water where the sculpture rests, the large red cherry balanced on the tip of the massive, bent spoon. It’s a popular backdrop for selfies and social media posts.
