Page 35 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
He scoffs. “Guys who do that are going for the gross-out factor. Can I eat bugs? Sure. Can I also tell you which ones are edible, as well as the crunchiest and most savory? Definitely. I do know how to survive in the wild for months, and that often requires bugs. But here’s the thing: there’s no need to eat bugs if—wait for it—you pack food correctly. I generally know how long I’m going to be on an expedition. We aren’t living in a world anymore where our plane crashes in the Andes with no one able to find my crew and me for seventy days so we resort to cannibalism.”
“Cannibalism is one of my hard limits too.”
A smile seems to sneak across his face. “You were always such a smart-ass. I see you still are.”
“So are you.”
“Then we are birds of a feather,” he says, a little flirty, a little inviting. It’s a throwaway comment, but the way he says it, emphasizing the “we,” makes my heart skitter.
Skittering is dangerous.
Skittering hearts ought to be put in their place.
Fortunately, the waitress swings by to take our order, saving me from myself.
I opt for a salad and fries, since that’s the best kind of balanced diet. Hunter orders the trio he was longing for. “And I’ll need a chocolate milkshake to go.”
“Can I interest you in a chocolate milkshake, miss?” the curly redhead asks me, tapping her pencil against the pad of paper in her hand.
Across the table, Hunter mouths, Don’t feel guilty.
I turn to the waitress. “And I’ll have a chocolate milkshake too, with a side order of I’d never feel guilty about something so tasty.”
Chuckling, she writes down the additional order. “I promise you won’t feel guilty, and you won’t regret it either. Sally makes the best milkshakes.”
“I can honestly say I’ve never regretted a milkshake.”
She slides the pencil over her ear. “Nor have I.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Men though? I’ve regretted men many times over. Jobs? Oh, yeah. But milkshakes? Never ever.”
With a wink, she spins on her Keds and heads for the kitchen.
When I return my gaze to Hunter, he’s staring at me as if I’m the object of all his curiosity. It’s the same way he studied me before he kissed me.
My stomach swan dives as I recall that kiss. The intensity etched in his brown eyes, the heat in them. His eyes have always drawn me in because they reveal him. He can’t ever seem to hide his wishes with eyes like that—eyes that seem true, vulnerable, and beautiful.
Right now, they’re wishing for another kiss, and I desperately want to grant that.
But the wedge of guilt pushes against my skin. Guilt reminds me, too, that I need to laser in on the Valentina estate, not on my ex, not on his eyes, not on his lips. Kissing him again would be a mistake. A beautiful and dreadful mistake. He’s the ultimate distraction, and I need to stay the course.
So I return to the discovery we made in the mirror. “About the letter. I was thinking—”
“What about you, Presley?”
“What about me?” I’m not sure what he’s getting at. We’re talking about the letter, aren’t we?
“Do you regret men . . . or jobs?” There’s a stripped-bare quality to Hunter’s voice, like he’s opening himself up, especially since he’s leaning on the “men” side of the question. He’s not asking about the letter at all.
I’m not ready to excavate my heart for someone who broke it. “I’ve had jobs that didn’t pan out, and I suppose I do regret that. And since I’m not with anyone, I suppose it could seem like I regret some relationships. But I think you can learn from everyone. So I choose to have no regrets.”
My answer is clinical, matter-of-fact. There’s not a shred of vulnerability in it, so my heart remains safe in its steel cage.
Wait. Make that titanium. I need extra strength with this man.
“Did you ever marry?” he asks, pressing on like the decade that’s passed between us is the eighth summit he intends to crest.
“You don’t mince words.”
“Just trying to get to know you again,” he says, his eyes not wavering from mine.
My heart throws itself against the titanium walls, desperate to break free.
I try to center myself so I don’t backslide into the temptation of him.
Picture the bull’s-eye.
Pull back the arrow.
Don’t allow distraction.
He’s simply behaving like a friend, like he said he wanted to do. “Almost, but no. I was engaged, but it turned out my fiancé enjoyed the company of not just me, but hookers too. So suffice it to say, we didn’t make it down the aisle.” Before he can respond or peel off another question, I grab the mic, tossing the topic back at him. We should be decoding a letter, but apparently we’re dissecting our romantic pasts. Maybe this must be done first. “And what about you? Were you ever married? Engaged?”
