Page 132 of The Romance Line
“So, we really should get things going with Date Night,” Clementine adds. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
She looks to me hopefully, and I steal a look at Everly. Her face is unreadable now. Her eyes give nothing away. They’re just…hard.
But I’m good at memorizing. And I remember all too clearly something she said last week.“Max, let’s get through the next event, but once we do, I could try to talk to my boss.”
Could.She only said shecould try. I am such a fool. I push back in the chair. “Excuse me,” I say, then I step away from the table, but instead of heading to the restroom, I beeline to the front door, a man on a mission. Once outside, I draw a huge breath.
This is how I feel when an opponent slams into me. When the wind’s knocked out. When the world has turned upside down.
A minute later, Garrett’s pushing open the door, joining me in the cool late November night. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just needed some air.”
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You don’t need to make this decision tonight,” he says. “Actually, maybe don’t make it tonight.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Garrett holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay.”
“Are you trying to help Everly get a promotion?” I ask like it’s a crime.
He tilts his head, studying me quizzically. “It’d be nice if she got one. She works hard. She’s good at her job. Maybe fix your shit and act the same way,” he says, for once not playing the smooth, cool agent role, but instead the kick-a-client-in-the-pants one.
He stares me down, hands on hips. Waiting. He’s not leaving me out here alone because he doesn’t trust me. And really, maybe I don’t deserve trust with the way my brain has turned black and dark. I heave a sigh then say, “Fine. Let’s go back inside.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Shake this mood, man. It’s not good.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s project.”
Then I shrug him off and go back inside, slapping on a false smile for the rest of the meal.
47
THE GREAT UN-SPIRALING
Max
The second we’re in my car, she slams the door, then looks at me with both concern and accusation in her eyes. “What is going on with you?”
Like she doesn’t know. I fling the question right back at her. “What’s going on withyou?”
She yanks the seatbelt on, then crosses her arms. “Why would you ask me that question about Date Night?Is there anything that would hold me back?” She mimics me, but her voice is laced with hurt.
So is my whole body.
“Because I needed to know.” I stab the on button and hit the gas. But as I cruise through traffic, I can’t escape the weight of her stare.
“What is going on, Max?” she asks again, pressing me, with genuine concern in her voice.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?