Logan lowers the pads, breathless. “You’ve been giving her so much space I’m starting to wonder if she’s on another continent.”
I glare. He shrugs.
“I’m just saying, maybe she’s pushing you away because she’s scared, not because she doesn’t feel anything.”
I throw one last punch for good measure. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe,” he adds with a smirk, “you’re both hopelessly gone for each other but too stubborn to admit it.”
“I liked you better when you were letting me hit you.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, picking up the mitts. “I’ll shut up now. But fair warning, if you keep looking at her like she’s the moon and stars, one of the kids is going to start writing poetry about it.”
I roll my eyes. “Get back in position.”
He grins. “Yes, coach.”
And by the time we’re finished, I feel much better. I hate it, because that means Logan was right about me needing to punch something. And of course, I’ll never tell him.
But hewasright.
Two days later, it’s finally time to pack up and leave. The kids have a dazed look in their eyes from all the fun, and even the trees seem to rustle a little more softly, like they’re mourning the end of our time together.
When I see Romilly loading her luggage into the trunk, I approach her. Nerves swim in my stomach because I haven’t spoken much to her since our kiss. But I manage to say to her, “I was thinking about riding back with Logan. If you’d prefer it.”
As if by instinct, she bites her lip. She meets my gaze like it’s painful for her. “That’s probably a good idea.” And then she stares at the ground. “See you at work tomorrow?”
I nod. “Of course.”
When I grab my things and stuff my duffel bag into the trunk of Logan’s SUV, he shoots me a wince. “Ouch, man.”
“Stop it.” I stand by the open door, watching as Romilly gives a lingering hug to each of her campers. She laughs at something Taylor says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear, and I feel that ache in my chest all over again.
I’m standing at the front door of the lake house when my mother texts me.
Mum
Have you been ignoring my messages, Sebastian?
Me
Which messages?
Mum
The ones asking if you’ll be attending the gala this Tuesday in Portland with us? After all, you’re already there.
Frowning, I scroll up to see what she’s talking about. Indeed, there are at least three texts I somehow missed about a gala.
Dread pools in my stomach. If I believed she was asking me to attend out of kindness, or even convenience, I might consider it. But I know for a fact this is her way of trying to rope me back into my old life. Mum has never asked me to come to their annual autumn gala before.
Even though I feel pressured by her right now, guilt slices through me as I reply.
Me
Sorry.
Mum
