“How you write love stories yet you don’t believe in love.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I believe in love.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” I locked eyes with him. “Like I said before, I believe in love. It just doesn’t believe in me.”
Landon’s blue eyes softened, and he sat on the couch. “Then why do you write about it?”
I swallowed hard, feeling more vulnerable than I’d allowed myself to feel around a man in a very long time. If they saw you as gentle, they’d use your softness as a weakness. If they heard your voice crack, they’d deem you fragile.
And then that heart of yours?
They’d shatter it.
I sat across from him on the couch and wrapped my arms around my body. “We don’t do this, Landon,” I whispered.
“We don’t do what?”
“Converse.”
“We could, Shay. You could let me in.”
“I tried that once. It didn’t really work out for me.”
He grimaced. “I broke your heart all those years ago.”
“It doesn’t matter. We were stupid kids. That wasn’t real love. It was fiction.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Underplay what we had. That was the most realistic thing I’d ever felt in my whole life.”
Then why wasn’t I enough?
My chest tightened, and I felt my emotions beginning to swirl as Landon worked his way into my heart. A heart that I worked hard to keep closed off from men—especially him.
Stop it, heart, I ordered.Don’t you dare skip for the man who shattered you in the first place.
I asked him to leave because I couldn’t take the flurry of emotions building inside of me.
“Can I come back tomorrow?” he questioned.
I should’ve said no.
But stupidly, I said yes.
Even though I wanted to tell him to just stay.
45Landon
I thought that the interactions with Shay were going well—up until I talked to Raine and learned Shay hadn’t been able to find new employment with her degree and how much she hated working at the coffee shop.
Shay didn’t tell me about her struggles because we didn’t talk on that level. She didn’t let me in. I racked my brain over and over, trying to figure out what I could’ve done to make this right. I read Shay’s work. She was beyond talented, and I had more than enough connections to help her find a place in the industry. But I needed advice from a person who once knew the younger version of me. I needed to go back to the woman who saved me. Back to the woman who taught Shay and me both so much about life.
“Sorry, we’re closing up for the night,” a sweet voice said as I pushed open the door to Harmony, a yoga studio in downtown Chicago. It was a stunning studio, and the peace I felt walking inside was overwhelming. Calming jazz music played over the speakers, and essential oils filled the space. Lavender, I assumed.