Page 10 of Miss Behaved
It took a full five minutes of staring as she talked to her editor and crossed to the registration table before I found the balls to head over and say something. I’ve never been shy, but damn if that woman didn’t knock the air out of my chest when she looked at me with those deep brown eyes.
I’m not sure what I expected walking up to her, but I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know if only her outside was different. Did she still ramble every time she got nervous? Did she still power through a pack of chewing gum in one sitting? Did she still love dogs more than cats? Was she still the only girl in the world capable of seeing right through me?
To the rest of the world, this firecracker of a woman is Monica Meadows. Writing fluffy romance that I would never admit to reading, even out of pure curiosity.
But to me, she will always be Monica Lopez, the one that got away.
“Got away” is a bit of a stretch. After all, I was the asshole who disappeared on her after taking her virginity. What kind of douche does that? I told myself it was for the right reasons, and that’s what I still honestly believe. But it doesn’t make me any less shitty.
Especially since I never told her the truth.
Facing Monica for the first time in ten years drags me straight back into the skin of that teenage boy. The one who climbed out of her bed without waking her up. The one who brushed the curls out of her face before committing her sharp cheekbones to memory. The one who was too much of a coward to ever look back.
And I can’t help but think something for the first time in years—I was wrong.
I thought about reaching out, lots of times. Especially that first year after. But the more time that passed, the less I knew what I would say. How do you call someone out of the blue and tell them,Sorry I broke us.
A familiar feeling starts swirling in my stomach, and I can’t swallow it down.
As the elevator doors close behind Monica, the noise of the room kicks up again, and although I’ve been living in a void without her for a decade, it’s never felt as heavy as this very moment.
Knowing she’s this close. Knowing no woman since has lived up to her smart mouth, fierce laugh, and magnetic mind. Knowing that even if I’m out of chances, a part of me deep down still wants to try.
Monica Lopez went from being my best friend to a teenage wet dream to nothing, and all I want is to click rewind in this moment and take it all back.
As if I could. Orshould.
I’m not the kid she remembers, the one who stayed late after school every day just to catch her coming out of the library. I’m not the boy who spent weekends writing on her porch and reading her stories. I’m not the kid who snuck ten bucks from his dad’s wallet to get her a tiger’s eye necklace her birthday because the stone reminded me of her eyes.
I’m the guy who left.
After hitting the registration table myself, I head to my room, but I’m stopped right outside of it by a woman with short, dyed-black hair who plants a hand on my shoulder.
“Oh dear, look at you. I must be one lucky lady to have you next door.” She smiles, wrinkling the skin at the corner of her eyes.
She’s my mom’s age, maybe a little older, but her eyes moving up and down convince me she’s thoroughly undressing me in her mind.
“I—uh…” I stammer.
“Agnes.” She shoots out her hand between us. But when I move to shake it, she grabs my bicep and gives it a squeeze instead.
What kind of greeting is that?
“Carson,” I say, sliding the key card into the door and hoping she’ll take the hint and disappear.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she stands in the doorway, her body holding it open. “You’re new,” she says, watching me drop my suitcase in the closet.
“What gives me away?”
She snickers. “Honey, I’ve been in this business for twenty-five years, and trust me, I’d remember your face.”
“I’m a crime writer. This isn’t my normal scene,” I tell her, trying to figure out if she’s hitting on me or just uncomfortably friendly.
Her nose scrunches. “You write thrillers?”
I nod, and her face sours further.
