Say Yes (Nostalgic Summer Romance)

“What do you want?” I seethed.

“I was wondering if you were still saying yes.”

I cocked a brow.

“Because if you are,” he continued, gesturing to the empty shot glass in front of me. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Please,” he said, his voice lower, hands coming out of his pockets to curl over the back of Angela’s chair. “I owe you an apology.”

My eyes were mere slits I stared at him through, and my breaths were hot like that of a dragon. Across the bar, Angela snapped her fingers and waved her hands all crazy in the air until I looked at her. When I did, she mouthed are you okay, do you need help?

I glanced back up at Liam’s pathetic face and sighed, shaking my head at Angela before I waved a hand dismissively at the chair Liam held onto in lieu of answering him.

He accepted the annoyed invitation, taking a seat before he caught the attention of the waiter. He ordered a few more small plates and a bottle of red wine for us to share, and then his eyes were on me again.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For pretending like I didn’t know you on Saturday night.”

I snorted, thankful for the pause in conversation when our waiter dropped off the new bottle of wine. He poured a healthy glass for me, and I sucked half of it down as soon as he left us.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“No, it isn’t.”

I shook my head, tucking my right hand between my thighs as I held my wine glass with the left. My eyes trailed over the sun’s rays casting a gold glow over the river. It was easier to blind myself with that light than to look at Liam Benson.

He let out a long sigh. “You make this so difficult.”

“I make this difficult?” I shot back. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are.”

“Clearly.”

“We are,” he said again, more earnestly. “I just… I’m fucked up, Harley.”

His dark eyes searched mine with those words, and he ran his hands back through his hair before he tore his gaze away, looking out over the river.

“You deserve more than the way I treated you,” he admitted softly. “And I don’t have an excuse that can make it right, but I do have a genuine apology. I understand if that’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Our eyes met again, and I rolled my lips together, tasting the red wine staining them. “It’s okay,” I finally said. “Water under the bridge.”

His lips ticked up into a soft smile, and he nodded once. “Thank you.”

Our food was delivered, then, a variety of bruschetta and meats and cheeses and fruits. When the waiter left us again, I grabbed a slice of tomato bruschetta and shoved it in my mouth to keep from having to figure out what to say next.

“So,” Liam said between his own bites. “You really did a number on that assignment this weekend.”

I smirked, still chewing and unable to answer.

“It seemed a little… angry.”

I swallowed. “Maybe it was.”

“Am I the asshole who inspired it?”

“Stronzo.”

He cocked a brow.

“That’s asshole in Italian,” I explained, reaching for my wine. “And as far as your inquiry, I’ll never tell.”

He chuckled, and with the sound came a breath of ease that fell over us both.

“I liked that you pierced her nipple,” he commented. “That was sexy. And unexpected.”

I shrugged. “I was kind of approaching it from the birth of the modern Venus. Women have broken down a lot of walls in the last one-hundred years, and I think some men are threatened by it. We were embraced by men when we were soft, submissive, and nurturing. But now that we’re edging on the more dominant and powerful side, I think it brings a level of fear to most men.”

Liam’s bottom lip jutted out as he nodded. “Makes a lot of sense, actually. My mom was the first woman in her family to go to college, and it was something my grandparents didn’t understand. Even now that she’s successful in her career, I think they hold it against her for not being a stay-at-home mom with me and my brother.”

I didn’t miss the way his words faltered at the mention of his sibling, and his eyes dropped from mine to the wine before he cleared his throat and looked out over the water.

“What was he like?” I asked, tracing the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “Your brother.”

Liam scratched his neck, but didn’t answer.

“We don’t have to talk about him if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No,” he said with a firm shake of his head. “I mean, yes, it makes me uncomfortable. But only because of the guilt.”

My chest tightened.

I wanted to tell him again that there was no reason to feel guilty, that the accident wasn’t his fault, but I knew before even offering those words that it didn’t matter if no one else felt like he was responsible. He did.