Method

He lets out a long breath.

“I know it seems like a lot to ask, and it is. But I want us to happen. And if you do too, we can’t second-guess each other like this.”

Hating how much I’ve already let myself care, I nod in agreement.

“Mila. You there?”

“Yes, yes, Lucas, yes. I just…I didn’t hear from you and I started thinking—”

“Too much. Too fucking much. You can’t do that. I miss you, still. Don’t forget a second of what we have. I sure as hell haven’t.”

That was the problem. I couldn’t forget any of it, drunk, sober, or sedated wearing a second-skin dress or a robe and rollers. “I better not regret this.”

“I’m gonna get the girl,” he says in an aggravated whisper, “even if she’s trying to give me a fucking heart attack.”

I sniff through my laugh and nod because exhaustion and a headache have set in.

“Mila,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I hate Egypt without you.”

Mila

My phone rang exactly three days after Lucas’s call, and I answer eagerly, with renewed faith.

“Hi,” I say, sipping a new red. “How did it go today?”

“I’m exhausted. What are you doing?”

“Cooking dinner.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Marsala? It’s my specialty. Do you like pasta?”

“Love it. Sounds amazing.”

“I’ll cook it for you when you get home.”

“And then?”

“And then what? You want the whole night laid out?”

“Why not?”

Grinning I pour more wine. “Okay, well if we’re doing a date my way, we’ll take dessert out into my rose garden.”

“Okay.”

“And then, I’ll give you a massage.”

“Please God, no,” he rasps out.

“Shut up, Walker. And then we’ll sleep.”

“That’s it?” he prods. “Sounds pretty anti-climactic.”