The Last Person

A little. I don’t remember what she first said to me. I was focusing too much on her lips and the probability of getting her out of those leggings without completely destroying them. The only words I can easily recall are the ones where she revealed her weakness.

The kiss.

She doesn’t want me to kiss her because she knows that’s her weakness.

“Why are you smirking like you did in fact have sex with her?”

I press my lips together to suppress my grin. “Did you climb that one?” I nod to the red route.

“Yes. I did that one while you were having sex with Anna in the bathroom.”

I have nothing but my unavoidable grin which tells the truth.

We boulder for another hour. As we exit the gym, I slow my pace when I spy Anna in the office. As if she knows I’m staring at her—as if she knows she’s helpless to said stare—her gaze shifts from the computer screen to me.

“I need your phone number.”

The girl who blabber-mouthed about the thousand dollars steps away from the counter to give me a better view of Anna.

“Not happening.”

“I’ll have to kiss you again if you don’t give me your phone number.”

Harper snorts a laugh behind me while the girl behind the desk turns almost as red in the face as Anna—almost.

Anna rolls back in her chair and shoots to her feet as they stomp toward me. When she’s toe to toe with me, she draws a long breath in through her nose, beady eyes murdering me with one look.

“I—” She cuts herself off, giving Harper a quick glance.

“If we need to talk in private again, the bathroom works for me.” I shrug, letting my gaze do whatever it wants to her whole body.

“I’m going to head home.” Harper jerks her head toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say without taking my eyes off of Anna.

“Give me your phone,” Anna grits between her teeth.

Grinning, I unlock my phone and bring up a new contact screen before handing it to her. She types in “Girl you will never call” as her name then enters her cell number.

“Thanks.” I slip the phone into my pocket. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

“I have a date tonight.” She tips up her chin.

I honestly don’t know whether to believe her or not. She’s not mine to share, but if she were … I wouldn’t let her out of my arms.

Disappointment claws at my face, but I firm up my expression and offer a small smile instead and two honest words. “Lucky guy.”

I don’t miss her tiny flinch as she deflates a fraction. “Eric …”

Hurting her. Disappointing her. Guilting her.

They’re not my intentions.

“Bye, Anna.” I force my feet to move forward. I force my gaze to not look back.

But … I want to.

If I can’t have this woman in my life, I fear I could spend the rest of it looking back.

Wondering.

Regretting.

Hurting.

Chapter Eleven

Anna

“So you are a thing.” Kenzie eyes me after the door closes behind Eric.

We’re something alright. I fear we’re something toxic. I know he’s toxic for me. I just don’t think he feels the same way. And why would he?

“No.” I turn and head back to the office, keeping my gaze on my feet, my heart locked in self-preservation, and my mind replaying his words.

Eric swooped into my life and claimed way more headspace than I can afford to give him. I wish I knew how to take it back. Erase all that we’ve done.

I wish I could unmeet him and have a redo under different circumstances.

After work, I take my computer to Ritual Cafe where I have a date with a brownie, a cup of decaf, and my laptop to get more work done. An hour after pushing myself to focus, I dig my Kindle out of my handbag and bring up The Last Person.

One page at a time, one line at a time, I start rereading it. Maybe Eric’s right.

Maybe it’s a flawed story.

Maybe the writing is flawed.

Maybe it’s redundant, predictable, and self-indulgent.

It’s just …

It’s really hard to fall in love with something and feel judged for that love. Books possess power. They are no more ink and paper than humans are flesh and bones.

Humans have souls … books have souls.

They reach across oceans. Bridge divides.

In some ways, they are so much more than the hands that write them. Books transcend time. Stories don’t die. They are immortal. They are timeless.

I guess I’m a romantic for books. When someone shares my love of a story, it reaches deeper than a kiss. It’s a bond that can’t be broken.

Maybe that’s why I can let Eric steal me for a moment, give him my flesh and bones, and my temporary wandering mind. What happens when the physical fades and we’re left with the hard reality that his wind doesn’t blow in the direction of my soul?