A rush of heat spread across Shannon’s chest from those words. Meaningless words, but still the compliment thrilled her.
“And then I forgot to close the browser page before I went into a meeting. And that’s what popped on screen as I was making my business pitch. Her Facebook page. So now all my new business partners know I’m the guy who pines away for his college girlfriend.”
Her breath caught, and she turned to him. He was watching her, cataloguing her reaction to his bit. His eyes searched hers, but she returned her focus to the phone, more interested now in on-screen Brent. Because on-screen Brent wasn’t talking about getting caught watching porn, as she’d once thought. He was talking about her.
“But in my defense, if you saw her, you’d pine too. She was...” He stopped walking, stopped talking, and for the briefest of moments, he was not on stage—he was lost in time, it seemed. The next word seemed to fall from his lips with regret and wistfulness, “…perfection.”
She brought her hand to her mouth, covering her trembling lower lip. She sucked in her breath, holding in all that she felt, the overwhelming rush of emotions. It was just a comedy routine. He was great on stage, even when poking fun at himself. But even so, she was flooded with so much possibility from the way he talked about her.
“So not only was I busted for Facebook stalking my ex, but I’m also the complete asshole who let her get away. She was the one. The one who got away. Let this be your lesson, men of the world. Don’t be me. Don’t be King Schmuck.”
The clip ended.
When she’d originally watched the first half of the video, she’d wanted to reach her hands through the screen and throttle him.
Now, she wanted to squeeze her own heart for the stupid way it dared to beat the tiniest bit faster when he’d said perfection.
Silence cloaked them both. She stared at the screen, not quite ready to meet his eyes, too afraid of what she’d see. She’d only come there to clear the air, and now she was spun back in time, feeling everything again.
Lust. Desire. Sadness. Anger, too.
Without looking up, she asked quietly, “What part?”
“What do you mean—what part?”
“What part did you want me to see?” she asked, keeping her voice steady so she wouldn’t reveal the cascade of emotions waterfalling through her chest. “Because it’s funny. But which part is for me?”
She kept her head down. If she looked in his eyes, she’d lose herself. She’d lose her center. She’d lose every ounce of strength she’d relied on during the last ten years.
His voice was a confession. “She was perfection... she was the one... and I was the complete asshole who let her walk away.” Then his fingertips brushed against her wrist. She held in the hot shiver she felt from his touch. “I’m sorry I didn’t go with you. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I’m sorry I gave you an ultimatum. I’m sorry I twisted words around because I was desperate to keep you.”
His words now were a thread that pulled her up. She lifted her face and looked at him. In a second, she knew. He wasn’t performing, he wasn’t acting, and he wasn’t faking a thing. His eyes were serious. She believed him. She wanted to believe her body, too, and her body knew what it wanted.
She’d always listened to her body, had always been deeply in tune with its wishes and wants. Since she was four years old she had wanted nothing more than to dance. She had danced every day, harder, faster, better, until she was at the top of her game, and then tore her ACL one day during a rehearsal. But still, she remained a physical woman. She liked to be one with her body. And just then, her body and her heart wanted the same damn thing.
For Brent to make her feel good again.
As only he could. As only he ever had.
When she and Brent had been together, he’d fucked all her troubles away. Every kiss, every touch, every taste was the antidote to every painful memory. Sex with him was exhilarating. It was the greatest rush, the sweetest high. It was ecstatic amnesia. When he fucked her, she was no longer one of the Paige-Prince kids. She was not the left behind, the whispered about, one of those kids whose mother murdered their father for money.