What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

Unbidden, my eyes burn and my lashes lower. Damn it. I quickly blink away the sensation, I hope, and look at him, but I can’t seem to find a fluff answer. Not on this topic. “What does remission even mean?”

“More time,” he promises me.

“How much?” I ask, and I want him to answer, I want him to use the magic of his words to offer me the world.

“Do any of us ever really know how much time we have left?”

Wise words.

His words, I know from reading up on him, come from experience, from losing his own mother.

And because of this, that simple statement slides inside me and grabs hold of me in a way none other have in a very long time. “No one has put it in that perspective for me. I think they’re all too afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

“All we can do is live—”

“—like tomorrow is our last day?”

“Exactly,” he agrees.

“And that pretty much sums up why I’m here and not in New York, working the dream job many would kill for right now.”

“Because you’re afraid to live?” he challenges.

“That’s a bold statement from a man who barely knows me.”

“I’m simply stating what I understand.”

My eyes narrow. “From personal experience?”

“Yes,” he readily confirms. “From experience.” But he offers nothing more, making it clear he doesn’t intend to share more. “At some point,” he adds, “you have to move forward. You’ll have to decide if you want to go back home.”

“I’m pretty sure this is home. New York is the place I live.”

“But Riptide is holding your job for you?”

“They are,” I confirm. “Generously so.”

I steel myself for him to push for more, perhaps beyond my comfort zone, even more so than now, but he seems to read me and changes the subject. “That tells me we’re lucky to have you on this auction. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing yet,” I say, and because I want to know more about this man, I add, “but you obviously chose the charity for a reason. It means something to you, and maybe I can pick your brain at some point about how to do it justice.”

“Anything and anytime,” he agrees and while he offers me nothing personal, no look into the pain that guided his advice, his words are warm, intimate even, I think. His eyes even more so. “Why don’t you take my number?” he suggests. “You can call me when you need me.”

He wants me to take his number. Dash Black wants me to take his number, and somehow despite the flutter in my belly, I play it cool. I remind myself that he’s just a man. A ridiculously talented man, but just a man. “All right,” I agree, pulling my phone from my pocket. “I’m ready.”

He dictates, and I plug in the number and then text him: This is Allison Wright. When his phone pings, I say, “That was me.”

“Perfect. Now I know how to reach you, and you know how to reach me.”

I’m suddenly caught in the magnetic pull of his eyes, his presence, or maybe it’s something else, something that is me and him, not just him, and I’m too afraid of where that leads me to admit that fully. I’m vulnerable right now, and I know it. I can feel how much this man could affect me, and that means good and bad.

There’s a shift in the air, an energy that breaks our connection, and instinctively, we both look for the source. That’s when I realize the blonde woman he’d been with at the elevator that first day we met, is walking toward us. Oh God. What a fool I am. I look down and reach for my coffee, needing to occupy myself with something, anything but this man and his woman.

“Allison,” he says softly, willing me to look at him, his attention on me when it should be on her.

I steel myself for the impact and school my features, I hope, to unaffected. “Yes?” I ask, meeting his stare, which still feels intimate, and I am confused, so very confused by this man.

“I want you to meet my agent,” he says. “This charity means a lot to her as well. She’ll be helpful as we move forward.”

We.

As we move forward.

This is not a man who uses words without intent. He chose them, used them, wanted me to understand them. Us. We. What is this?

The woman stops beside us. “There you are, Dash,” she says. “I’ve been looking for you. And why are you always eating?”

The jest simply confirms a comfortable, personal relationship that does nothing to make this moment any easier for me.

Dash stands, and I follow him to his feet, both of us angling toward the woman. I can see her fully now, up close and personal, and the conclusion is as expected. She’s gorgeous, her skin pale perfection, her eyes remarkably light blue, almost the same shade as Dash’s. “Bella,” he says. “Meet Allison, the woman I told you about.”