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What I don’t realize is that I’ll be fighting the urge to stare at Jasper Gervais for years to come.
Plus, I remember how Sloane looks at a man when she really wants him. And she isn’t looking at her fiancé the way she used to look at me.
“Raise your voice at that woman one more time and I will drop you like a stone, Woodcock.”
And watching her comfort Harvey right now, I let myself admit that the way I love Sloane might not be how one friend loves another at all.
“You always look good to me. Concealer, no concealer. Fancy dress, Harvey’s sweat suit. Smooth hair”—his hand waves over me with a low chuckle—“whatever this is. It doesn’t matter. You’re you.”
I swallow and try my best not to melt onto the floor into a squishy pile of mush. “That’s probably what you tell all the girls, Gervais.” “Nah, Sunny. You’re my only girl.”
“Do you think about me?” I blurt, watching him still the minute those words leap from my lips. “When we go weeks or months without talking or seeing each other . . . do you think about me?” “Why?” His voice is cool and even, giving nothing away.
I twist at my ring nervously and sigh. “I don’t know. Here. With you.” I gesture between us. “I keep forgetting about everything else in my life. Everyone else. But when we’re apart I constantly come back to y—you know what? Never mind. Just ignore me.” The silence that stretches between us is thick, alive and sparking with the heat and reality of my almost- confession. A heat that suffuses my entire body when he finally responds with, “Every fucking day, Sunny.”
Because I’ve been staring at Jasper Gervais since I was ten years old, and suddenly . . . he’s staring back.
“Okay. More water. Then you can put whatever fancy voodoo-skin-shit this is on me.” “Way to avoid saying facial.”
“Times have changed, Sloane. I’m not scared anymore. You’re not my fucking friend. You’re just mine.”
“See, Sloane? You can wear someone else’s ring, but we both know you’ve always been mine.”
