28. Rosalyn

TWENTY-EIGHT

ROSALYN

That spot low in my belly twists.

I should have recognized you.

It shouldn't hurt.

It's not like this is new news.

But hearing him admit it out loud…

"I'm really sorry, Rosie." Nathan's tone is nothing but sincere.

I know he means it.

And if he's going to be truthful, then so will I. "It's been a long time, Nathan."

He shakes his head. "I should've?—"

"I saw you on TV," I blurt out.

His mouth snaps shut.

This is all so… complicated.

I try to slow my racing heart.

I can't believe Nathan is here. And I can't believe this is his company's picnic.

But I didn't set out to deceive him the night of that party just so he'd end up feeling guilty.

He narrows his eyes. "You watched my games?"

"No." I blush, not sure if it would be better or worse if I had. "I was always too busy."

Nathan nods toward the table of food behind me. "Building your own business."

Multiple jobs. Starting a new life. Running from my past.

"Something like that," I answer.

"But you saw me on TV?" His eyes are still narrowed, like he's trying to figure out why this is relevant.

I take a deep breath. "I was in a gas station, and there was a TV on behind the counter. Some after-game interview thing was playing, and… they said your name. That's how I found out you played. I hadn't known." I meet his serious gaze. "I didn't recognize you either. It?—"

Memories of how I felt in that moment crawl up my throat, stopping me from saying more.

It was such an awful feeling. Realizing I didn't know my childhood friend anymore. Especially after all the letters…

I swallow down the lump of sadness building in my throat.

But that friend is here. Standing in front of you, after all this time.

Nathan takes another step forward, putting us closer than professionally acceptable.

I try to blink away the building tension in my eyes, but a traitorous tear slips from my lashes.

"Aw, fuck." Nathan reaches up and brushes his thumb across my cheek. "Please don't cry, Beautiful."

He shuffles a bit closer.

His scent surrounds me. The same expensive cologne that clung to me after I'd clung to him in that pantry.

"Why am I here?" I whisper. Worried this might all be some game.

Knowing I couldn't handle it if it is.

"Because I wanted to see you again," he whispers back. No mincing words. No pretense. "And because your meatballs are delicious."

A puff of humor leaves my lungs as another tear breaks free. "You should've told Blake. There are no meatballs on the menu."

Nathan swipes his thumb across my cheek again. "Next time."

I let those words sink into my chest.

Next time .

Nathan leans closer. "I have one question."

"Just one?" We're still whispering.

"For now." He's so close I can feel his exhale on my lips. "Did you think about me when you made those marshmallows?"

The marshmallows at the party.

The dessert I make for every event.

My mouth opens. But I don't reply.

Because I don't want to.

I don't want to tell him they remind me of him every time.

I don't want to admit that I learned how to make them when I was sixteen just so I could pretend I was making them for him. So I could feel close to him.

I can't lay that much of myself out for him.

Not like this.

Not when my heart feels like it's going to crawl out between my ribs.

He makes a humming sound as he straightens, his hand sliding off my cheek. "Interesting."

I roll my lips together.

He might not know the details, but apparently, the truth was still written across my face.

The sound of a wagon rattling has me taking a step back. "I have to finish setting up."

Nathan takes his own step back. "One more thing, Rosie."

Every time he uses my old nickname, a piece of the wall I've built around myself cracks.

I exhale. "What is it, Nathan?"

I swear his eyes darken as he swipes his tongue across his lower lip. "Tell me what's for dessert."

I know what he's really asking. And there's no point in avoiding it. He'll either know now or when he comes back to eat.

Presley pulls the wagon up next to me.

Without explaining myself, and pretending my cheeks aren't flushed, I pull out the tub I want from the stack.

Lifting the lid, I pick up one of the two-toned pink and green squares .

I should be using tongs. But it's for Nathan. And after the pantry, we're beyond being professional.

I ignore the giant grin on Presley's face as I turn back to Nathan.

"It's cherry lime." I explain the colors as I hold it out.

Nathan slides his fingers against mine as he takes the marshmallow from my hand.

He bites off half. Then, as he chews, he looks at the half-eaten treat, inspecting it before putting the rest of it into his mouth.

My eyes slip down to watch his throat as he swallows.

I can't believe he put it together just from the s'mores from the Lovelace party. But he's right. I did think about him while I made these.

I always think of him when I make marshmallows. How could I not?

And I didn't really intend for them to become my signature dish, but they have.

Nathan holds his hand out. "One for the road?"

I've also always wondered if he'd like them. Or if he would've outgrown them. And now I have my answer.

Presley thrusts the tub in front of me.

I pluck another marshmallow out and place it on Nathan's exposed palm. "Don't spoil your appetite."

His eyes drop to my mouth. "Impossible."

Heat fills my veins, and Nathan drags his eyes lower, over my chest, before he turns and strides away.

When Nathan disappears into the building, Presley pretends to collapse over the wagon. "God. Damn. How do you two make marshmallows hot?" Still draped, she lifts her head to look at me. "Tell me we're here because he wants to make sweet, sweet love to you."

I snort and roll my eyes. "You're ridiculous."

Ignoring her reply, I turn back to the food table and distract myself with work.