“Yes.”
“We can’t do that again.” She says it firmly, but her voice cracks on the last word, and that crack tells me everything. She doesn’t want to say this. She has to say this.
“We established that last night,” I tell her.
“I know.” She looks flustered. “I just wanted to make sure.”
I raise a brow at her. “That’s why you are at my apartment at ass crack o’clock on a Sunday.”
“Yes.” She shrugs.
“Do you want a coffee?” I ask her.
“Yes, of course,” she answers.
I make my way into the kitchen and start making us coffee. She takes a seat at the counter and watches.
“I like you, Fish.” The words land in my chest like a puck to the ribs. “I like you more than I should, and more than is smart, and definitely more than is professional. But I can’t ...” She drags her hand down her face. “My job. Your job. My brothers. The team. The internet already thinks we’re together. If we actually got together and it went wrong, everything would fall apart. My career, your friendship with Pierre and Felix, the locker room, all of it.”
I busy myself with the coffee making so she doesn’t see how much her protests hurt me. I want to argue. I want to tell her Idon’t care about any of it. But she’s right. She’s right about every single thing, and I hate it.
“And I need you to know there’s nothing wrong with you.”Thanks, I think.She stops and looks at the ceiling, like the right words are up there. “You’re one of my favorite people in this city, and I’m not willing to risk that.”Well damn, she got me in the heart with that confession.
I turn and slide the cup of coffee over to her. “I feel the same way,” I tell her, and I mean all of it. “You’re the first person I want to talk to when something good happens or when something shit happens. I don’t want to lose that.”
She gives me a small smile as she takes a sip of her coffee. “I don’t want to lose that either.”
“I like you, Collette,” I confess to her, which makes her stop. “Like, really like you.”
“Fish.”
I shake my head. “I know. It sucks. But you’re the first girl in a long time that I’ve liked. That … um …” I’m being vulnerable right now. “That I would have liked to date and bring home to my mom.” Tears well in her eyes. I walk around the counter. “Hey, why are you crying?”
Her lip wobbles. “Because you’re so fricken sweet when you’re not being playboy Fish. And it’s going to suck when you meet someone who makes you feel the way I do, but they can have you.”
I reach out and brush the tears from her eyes, but they keep coming, so instead, I cup her face and kiss her tears away from each cheek.
“The feeling is mutual. It’s going to suck when you meet someone that your brothers are going to be happy with.” Those hazel eyes are my undoing, and I can’t help myself as I lean forward and kiss her. Not like last night, last night was heat and hunger and wanting. This is something else, it’s slow andgentle. My lips barely brush hers, and she inhales sharply like I’ve stolen the air from her lungs. My hand is still cupping her face, my thumb still wet from her tears, and I kiss her like I’m memorizing her. The softness of her mouth. The way her breath shakes against mine. The way her hand comes up and rests on my chest, not pushing me away, just holding on. She kisses me back, and it’s the saddest kiss I’ve ever had. Because we both know what it is. It’s not the beginning. It’s not a promise. It’s a goodbye to something that never got the chance to start. Every reason we can’t be together sits heavily between us, while our mouths say what neither of us is brave enough to say out loud. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, and a tear slides down her cheek and onto my thumb, and I feel it like a burn. I pull back just enough to press my forehead against hers. Our eyes are closed, our breathing is uneven, and she’s still holding onto my shirt.
“That’s the last one,” she whispers.
“I know.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Collette lets go of my shirt, smooths the fabric where she crumpled it, and pulls back. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and lets out a shaky laugh that breaks my heart because she’s trying to put herself back together in front of me.
“Okay,” she says. “Friends.”
“Friends,” I agree. And the word has never tasted so wrong in my mouth.
“I’ve got to go as I have brunch with the girls, and I need to head home and get ready,” she says, getting up out of the chair. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.”
“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” she asks, and I can hear the concern in her voice.
“Yeah. We’re good. I can handle having a new bestie,” I tease.
“Is Evan going to be okay with that?”