Page 117 of Go Back to December
We’re telling truths tonight, and I need to be honest with myself: I want to stay in this bed with Baz. For that to happen, there can’t be any more misunderstandings between us.
“Why didn’t you tell me the café was your idea?”
He pulls our hands back to the spot where the pillows meet and gives the deepest sigh in the history of Baz Johnson sighs. “I planned to.”
His rough laugh morphs into a strangled gaharumphdiga sound. “It was clear from the first day you opened, you had no time for me. You thought I was one of them. Whatever it is you call them. Amal told me once.”
“Money Honeys.”
He flicks his brows.
“I wouldn’t have thought that if you had told me you were a human rights lawyer. That you advocated for the café. For me,” I add softly.
“Yes, that sounds a lot easier than scrapping for your attention every morning by acting like a complete asshole.” His eyes hold mine. “But at least I had your attention.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I hoped you hated me. There’s a lot of passion wrapped up in hate.”
We’re dancing close to the edge of a knife. Maybe I did hate him a bit when I believed he’d forgotten me. But as the flickering lights reflect across his beautiful face, I realize that whatever happened between us before doesn’t matter. It won’t change how I feel about him now.
“Wild as it sounds, I think you actively disliking me made me less worried about your rejection,” Baz says. “I just kept showing up for breakfast, hoping that all that negative attention would eventually provide me with some opening.”
“I didn’t make it easy.”
He huffs his agreement. “The night of the Christmas party, I was going to tell you about the café. That’s why I followed you to the station.”
“And got attacked for your efforts. Twice.”
“It was worth it.”
“Baz—”
“Let me finish,” he says softly. “You built that café. I was just the money guy, fortunate enough to be in a place to grease the wheels. It was your idea, your genius. You sacrificed your time and your sanity and I’m sure more than a few tears to make it succeed. For someone who claims to be so terrified of failing, you chose one of the riskiest things to launch. It flourished because of you. And I had the privilege to watch you do it all from the front row. That was a fucking gift.”
His words leave me speechless.
“My only regret is that you really thought I hated you.” He draws a sharp breath. “I could never, Mel.”
The sky above fades to black. There’s a weight of expectation in Baz’s gaze, like the morning in the park, before we kissed. He’s kept his promise by only holding my hand.
But he’s handling his body carefully. I can sense his skin itching with the effort it’s taking him not to move or push or tug on this string tied taut between us. Connecting the auld lang syne to this shiny first night.
It’s work to voice the question that is the last part of our agreement. “Why didn’t you want me to come with you to PT?”
Baz shifts his attention to the bed. Slowly, he peruses my black thermal leggings and the curves beneath my sweater. His eyes linger over the hollow in my clavicle, then hover over my mouth for an inordinate amount of time before meeting my stare.
“I wanted specific directions on how to avoid injuring myself.” His lips curve. “In bed.”
Fever spreads from my forehead down and becomes a boiling trail that singes my neck. “You’ve been thinking about this since the hospital?”
“Long before that,” he rumbles. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve imagined being with you. In countless different ways.”
My breath catches.
Baz hisses in reply.
Our hands are practically breaking each other with their death grips.
