“I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I tried to smile and make up for my regrettable sarcasm by adding earnestly, “Why don’t you try asking her if she’s busy over the weekend? Just ask, Do you have any plans this weekend? And if she says no, then ask her out for a movie or dinner. Not everything has to be flying to private islands for a week of dating boot camp.”

“With us, it was too much too fast. I pushed you,” he said with equal sincerity, his eyes ensnaring mine.

“Yes…and no. I mean, I doubt I would have given you much of a chance unless we’d been stranded on that island. But you’re different now. You’ve changed.” My words were honest because I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. I needed him to leave so I could process the end, our true end, without his tremendously brilliant eyes watching and assessing me.

“What do you mean?” He leaned and reached forward, pressed his palm to the surface of the table just two inches from where my hand rested next to my cup, but he didn’t touch me.

“Well, you haven’t yelled at me once since we’ve been friends. You’ve cussed, but you haven’t yelled. You’re…different. More mature, respectful. You seem calmer. Content.”

“And that’s good? You like the changes?”

“Yes, of course.” I smiled because I couldn’t help it, and even now, even when I knew our ship had sailed, I wanted to reassure him, because I cared about him. “Yes, I do. Contentment and self-control look good on you.”

“Happiness and passion look good on you.” Martin’s hand inched closer to me, his knuckles brushing mine—like he was testing how receptive I’d be to his touch—before he captured my hand in his and entwined our fingers on the table.

I let him, because HOLY CRAP it felt so good, like hot cocoa on a snowy day…with lots of Baileys. During Christmas we’d been in a bubble; hugging, lying together, and holding hands had felt natural. I’d missed his touch over the last week. I’d missed it so much. I hungered for it. And now, knowing this might be the last time we touched like this, the connection felt startling, necessary, and oddly provocative.

Maybe my body craved his body because I’d never been with anyone else. Maybe his touch intoxicated me and set my heart racing because he knew me so intimately. He touched me with an understanding of my strengths and weaknesses, of my desires, of who I became when I lost control.

I stared at our combined hands, pressed my lips together and rolled them between my teeth, because I thought I might whimper. This was bad. Very, very bad. We were just holding hands. How was I going to move on like he had if I couldn’t even hold his hand?

And now he wanted to be with someone else.

He wanted me to help him, give him advice on how to woo another girl. If I continued to be his friend, this time I would be solely responsible for breaking my own heart, no assistance from Martin required.

I could feel myself starting to crack. My blood roared between my ears. Unable to maintain my calm under all the swirling and torrid emotions, I yanked my hand away and stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the wooden floor as I backed up two steps.

“I have to get back to work.” I whispered this to the cookies because…self-preservation.

“What time do you get off?”

“Work?” I questioned dumbly, my eyes darting to his then away when they connected with his steady gaze.

But I did catch his smirk before he clarified, “Yes. Work.”

“Not ’til late.” I stepped forward to stack our cups and clear our dishes.

“What are your plans for the weekend?” he asked.

I shrugged, careful to not pick up the dishes from the table until they were pre-bussed so he wouldn’t see my hands shake. “Um, I have shows Friday and Sunday at night. Mostly I just need to get stuff together for classes.” I tucked the plates close to my chest and turned for the kitchen.

“Do you want to hang out on Saturday? Celebrate your change in major?” He stood as well, grabbing the last of the dishes and following me.

“Where? In the city?”

“No, I’ll be here. We’ll have dinner.”

I thought about this for a split second, but then realized I needed more time to decide whether I could truly be friends—just friends—with Martin. I had no idea. Therefore, I decided that one dinner wouldn’t hurt. At the very least it might give me an opportunity to truly say goodbye.

“Sure. Pizza?” My voice cracked.

“No. Something more formal. Wear a dress.”

I dumped our empties into the sink, still feeling flustered and distracted.

“A dress?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I want to try something.”

I turned and faced him, my hands on my hips, and gave him a questioning frown; I was a little breathless as I was trying to keep pace with our conversation and the dizzying thoughts in my head. “Like an experiment?”

He nodded, his eyes trapping mine, pulling me further under his Martin Sandeke magic. “Yes. Exactly like an experiment. I’ll even help you tabulate the findings after.”

I exhaled a laugh that sounded more nervous than genuine. He needed to leave so I could figure out what to do without the dazzling interference of his presence.

I hurriedly agreed, “Sure. Fine. Saturday. I’ll wear a dress. We’ll experiment.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Before I comprehended his intent, he grabbed my upper arm to hold me in place, bent forward, and kissed me on the corner of my mouth. I was still paralyzed by shock—wondering if he’d meant for a cheek-kiss and had misaimed—when I caught his scent.

He smelled good. Really good.

Like a guy who showers with expensive, French-milled soap scented with sandalwood as well as something so completely him. It was the him part that hijacked my brain, because it took me back to a boat in the Caribbean where we’d laughed and fought and spooned…and forked.

It took me back to snuggling with him on the couch in his apartment, hugging him, and waking up with him Christmas morning. Liquid emotion stung my eyes and I felt overwhelmed by the fact he was unquestionably no longer mine. He wanted someone else.

Meanwhile Martin was in motion. He’d crossed to his chair, grabbed his coat, tossed a fifty on the table, and left without another word. The door chime alerted me to his exit. It broke me from my trance just in time to see him turn to the left and disappear from view.

He didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 13

Thermodynamic Quantities for Selected Substances at 298.15 K

“Explain to me what’s happening with you and Martin, because…I don’t understand.”

“I told you, we’re going out to dinner as friends.” I mentally gave myself a high five because I sounded convincing and not at all brittle. And that was a miracle.

Despite the fact Martin had moved on, I had not. I could not be friends with Martin Sandeke.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

I wanted more, and I would likely always want more.

After a great deal of thinking since seeing him earlier in the week, I’d decided to go with my original plan of confronting him. I was going to adult like an adult and tell him I was still in love with him. Then I was going to ask Martin if, despite his interest in someone else, whether or not he still had feelings for me he wished to explore via a relationship.

After that, I had no concrete plan.

“As friends?” Sam sounded and appeared skeptical.

“Yes. As friends.”

“Riiiight.”

“It’s true. In fact, right before we made dinner plans, he asked me to give him advice about another girl.” I shrugged. I was getting good at this, at rising above.

“Oh…” Sam’s face fell, then to herself she said, “Well, that’s kind of a shitty thing for him to do.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine.

I was the opposite of fine.

But I would be fine…eventually.

Either he said yes, he still had feelings for me. In which case we would hammer out the details of our reconciliation and move forward.

Or he said no, that he’d moved on. In which case I would tell him I could not continue to be friends with him, but would wish him well.

At least I would know for certain. At least I would be moving forward one way or the other.

“I’m not fine, in case you were wondering,” Sam announced, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’m not fine at all. Who is she? Is she smart? Pretty?”

“If the girl is who I think she is, his business partner Emma, then yes. She is very smart and pretty.” I’d decided the hypothetical girl was either Emma or Rose, both of whom were most definitely beautiful.

And that was fine.

That was actually truthfully fine, not fake fine. I was completely at peace with being beautiful to myself rather than being pretty in comparison to someone else.

“I hate her.”

I laughed at my friend. “There’s no reason to hate her.”

“Why are you being so okay about this? Martin was your first love. You loved him. You were in love with him. You cried for months after it was over in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.”