I am, but I haven't figured out how. If it were as simple as taking my hand back, I would.

  We stop in front of a white stone building and Carrick explains, "I'm staying at an Airbnb while I'm in town. It feels less temporary and more human."

  "You brought me to your place?"

  "I thought we could talk privately without interruptions. Just following my instincts."

  "Your instincts? If you were a dog, you wouldn't be a Labrador, or a Collie, a Terrier, a Hound or a Husky. I'm not sure what kind you'd be, but I'll figure it out."

  "A bulldog?" he asks with a smile, playing along. "That's the Marine's mascot."

  I shake my head. "So what do you mean while you're in town?" I ask as the doorman welcomes us into the warm vestibule.

  "Meetings, as you know."

  "When are you leaving?" I say with more bitterness than I intend.

  "As soon as you tell me to," he says sweetly as if it's up to me.

  I grind out, "Don't make this difficult."

  "I'm not, Navy." He holds up the pie as we board the elevator. "It's as easy as pie."

  I roll my eyes at the corny joke.

  The apartment, temporary or not, is stunning with high ceilings, a modern, neutral palette, a city vista of twinkling lights, and the river far off in the distance.

  From the kitchen he calls, "Want something to drink? I have water, tea, wine…"

  "Water is fine." I need some truth serum, something to get me to understand this confusing mixture of emotions roiling inside me.

  Carrick brings in the pie and gestures for me to sit down.

  He takes a big bite and around a mouthful says, "Mmm. Tastes like justice."

  "I didn't realize justice could be so delicious," I add.

  He sets his fork down and stretches his long legs. His eyes are dreamy in the dim light. "What you did back there for that girl was pretty badass. You dazzle me, Navy."

  My smile doesn't match my words. "This is going to get hard again," I say, deflecting the compliment and checking off dazzle on this week's UBoss module.

  "It doesn't have to. Let's start over."

  "You've known me almost my whole life. You've seen me with mono. You've seen me fall flat on my face during the production of Grease my sophomore year. You've seen me heartbroken, grieving… I think we're a little past starting over."

  "Then let's start right now."

  "What have you been doing when you're not throwing a pie in a lady's face, getting over the flu, and going to yoga classes with hot guys?"

  "He was hot, huh."

  "Was?"

  "It was," I swallow, "just a date, sorta."

  "Mmm. Will you see him again?"

  "Yes."

  Carrick's face falls. I don't see the need to rescue him from disappointment, but since we're attempting to be civilized, I add, "We're neighbors."

  "Oh." His expression falls even further.

  "Take several rounds of mixed drinks plus Kat, and add a long discussion about my non-existent love life to the equation. What does that equal?" I don't wait for him to answer. "A dare. A double dare, actually." I shake my head. "You asked a question. My turn."

  He leans back in the chair and cradles his head in his hands. "Ask me anything."

  "I wake up most mornings, fetch a triple, venti, soy, not sweet, no foam, latte then spend a better part of my day meeting Mr. Douche's inane demands. I endure water cooler banter and a glass ceiling—walls and mirrors, everything a reflection of the fact that long hours, solid commitment, and every ounce of creativity isn't going to get me anywhere in that office. But what I'm dying to know is what brought you to Albright, Bouche, and Carlotta? Where did you go after you left that brought you here?"

  He grins up to his eyes. "I was hoping you'd ask.' He passes me a paperback book off the coffee table. "Writing."

  Chapter 22

  Telling Stories

  I turn the novel over in my hands. It's titled OTP a love letters novel by C.K. Flynn. The cover image shows a couple with pinkies linked from behind, walking down a sunlit lane. I flip through the first few pages and see the author also wrote the other books in the Love Letters series each set in Rome, New York, Paris, or Prague. All of them are romance novels buried somewhere in my extensive to-be-read list, but more notably, all of the books by C.K Flynn are at the top of the New York Times bestsellers list, several times over. "Are you a literary agent or—" I ask confused.

  "No, I'm the author."

  I laugh and retort, "Yeah, me too. The title of my latest novel is How to Lose at Life. It's hilarious. It's about this ambitious twenty-something who moves to Manhattan, loses her job, also maybe her mind, and ends up as an assistant to a guy whose name rhymes with Douche, only she's so hard up, she doesn't even make the connection. She spends most of her time reading about the romantic lives of others and can't quite figure out how to fix her own broken heart."

  Carrick doesn't laugh and a smile doesn't crack across his face.

  "What? It won an award for being downright hilarious."

  Carrick's eyes glaze over with warmth. "Read it if you have a chance and tell me what you think."

  I look at the book again and run my finger over the name printed on the cover. "C.K. Flynn." I study him for a long moment. "Carrick Flynn Kennely."

  He nods. "That's me. I have a strict non-disclosure agreement because I'm using a pen name. Mr. Douche was under strict orders not to reveal my purpose at the PR firm."

  "Did you know I worked there?"

  "Happy coincidence or fate, depending on what you want to believe."

  "You write romance novels?"

  "I do." His lips quirk.

  "For a job?"

  "Uh, huh."

  I shake my head. "Nuh, uh. The joke's on me. You had this made. Self-publishing is hot right now." I flip my thumb across the pages, making them flutter. The sensation matches the one in my stomach.

  "I did have this made, but it's no joke," he says, tapping the cover. "There are a few jokes inside, because I try to be a witty guy, but they're at some of the more annoying characters' expense—an annoying sports bar manager, a nosy neighbor, that kind of thing, but not yours. I wouldn't play a joke on you."

  "Carrick, I don't understand."

  "It's simple. I hurt someone I care deeply about. I ran away, joined the military because I was afraid and figured the best way to get over my fears was to bury them deep beneath the most macho thing I could think of. The truth was I was hurting too. At the time, it was easier not to deal with all that. Then I sort of got my shit together and my parents were pressuring me to uphold the family legacy so I went to college—majored in business and minored in English." He clears his throat. "And women." He grimaces and exhales. "After graduation, I felt unfulfilled. I'd always wanted to travel through Europe so I declined a shoe-in job as a financial advisor, thanks to Colby. He says hi, by the way."

  "How's your oldest brother doing?"

  "He's getting married this summer."

  "I think my mother mentioned that a little while ago." I purposely didn't add the save the date to my calendar, not because I don't like Colby and I'm sure his fiancé is lovely, but I didn't want to see Carrick, which is now a moot point.

  "Want to go? I'm a groomsman, but haven't added my plus one yet."

  I throw my hands up in the air.

  "Too soon?"

  "So not happening. That is not part of our future."

  "Our?" he asks.

  "Carrick," I say in frustration.

  "Alright, alright. Sorry. Back to my story. My parents dealt with me joining the Marines, but passing up a job with a top firm in Manhattan? It didn't fly. But I did. I just left."

  "A Kennely left the nest without mom and dad's blessing?" I ask in disbelief.

  "I figured they'd come around eventually. There are lower expectations with the middle child."

  "Is that true?"

  "No. They were pissed." He shrugs. "Anyway, with little more than a backpack full of clothes and my laptop, I went overseas. I spent a lot of time walking and thinking and realizing that I'm a lucky bastard having been educated, am healthy, smart..., and suddenly not so lucky. My father, in a fit of rage locked down my credit cards."

  "Whoa. How did I not hear about this bit of gossip?"

  "They blacksheeped me. They'd been looking for an excuse since I enlisted."

  "But you're in Colby's wedding so…"

  "My ordinary sheep status has since been reinstated. This story has a happy ending," he pauses and looks up at me, "at least I hope so. Lonely and broke, I also missed home, but it wasn't the house on Seaside Terrace. It wasn't my parents. It wasn't the money or the yacht for that matter." His eyes linger on me with suggestion. "Totally broke and stranded, I'd devised an elaborate plan to get aboard the yacht—it was docked off Monaco at the time—and sail back to the US."

  I chuckle despite myself. "A stowaway on your own boat?"

  "Something like that. I was in Rome, making my way north… There's something magnetic about that city: the fountains, the alcoves hidden behind flowers and vines, the food—the glorious smells of bread, garlic, pastries... Everything there is so sensual. I thought of it as romantic Rome." He lets out a laugh. "Imagine that, me, having romantic thoughts." His eyes twinkle.

  "Yeah, crazy." The two simple words explode from my mouth with sarcasm.

  "If you knew me during college—"

  "I knew you before," I say despite the lump in my throat.

  His smile spans time and continents. "Yeah, you did." He speaks at a whisper as if saying something sacred.

  "I didn't mean that as a good thing."

  His eyes lock on mine, blue flecked with gold like the summer sun glinting in the sky.

  "I thought I knew you," I whisper back. "I entrusted the fragile pieces of my heart to you." It pounds in my chest, scared, in warning, begging me not to look or listen or do anything but keep my eyes down and my attention averted.

  "And I'm sorry I wasn't more careful." He reaches for my hand, sending hot arrows blazing through my arm, volleying for the place in the middle of my chest.

  A car alarm blares outside, breaking the spell.

  I wrest my hand away, but once more, I'm unable to ignore the tingling heat where his fingers left an impression.

  "Despite what you may think, I am sorry. You don't have to accept my apology, but I'm offering it in every way I know how." Carrick's voice chills a few degrees. "I've been in combat, defending freedom and fighting to survive. And what I'm doing now is a version of that. It's different, a more peaceful battle, but a fight nonetheless. I'm trying to win you back, Navy."

  His confession alters the landscape of this late night chat over pie because that would mean he had me in the first place and I will never trick myself in thinking I was his again.

  This is war.

  His words land on my inner terrain like bombs, exploding the land of hate, destroying anger, blowing up sadness. I want to flee; I see how easy it was for him to run away from the difficulty of all these emotions years ago. Things get challenging and retreat is the most obvious option. But I'm stronger than that, than he was, running away from us.

  I lift my chin, prepared to fight back. I do not flinch. I don't quake or shudder under attack. "You were saying about Rome," I prompt him, holding my ground.

  "Right. I was making my way through Italy toward the yacht when I came upon an opportunity to work at a book festival. It was fascinating and reminded me of you, which reminded me of home. And I realized, Navy, you are my home. Every good memory I have, you were there: the clam bakes, the bonfires, the sailing trips…"

  I recall afternoons by the pool, the country club, the beach, or just snuggled on the couch watching movies. It was no accident that I always sat next to him at his house or he slid into the booth next to me when we were out. I got a ride from him to school—even after Claire's boyfriend started bringing her when he got his license, and we still went together when I was dating Zach. I made it a point to go to his games and he rarely missed a field hockey match. We were together on holidays, birthdays, nearly every day. While watching a movie, on snowy afternoons, sitting next to him under a blanket wasn't always because I was cold. Our hands always found their way to clasp the other.

  But this is the battlefield and I will fight. "I was there with Claire."

  Hurt scours his features before it solidifies into the resolve of a warrior. "The point is you were there."

  I angle my strongest weapon at him. "Why didn't you tell me this years ago? Or in high school?"

  "Because I didn't know. You were in a relationship…I was afraid."

  "My relationship was a sham, as you know," I say, jabbing him.

  "I thought you loved Zach. All the while I was lying to myself—"

  "Lying to me."

  He doesn't avoid the daggers in my gaze.

  "Yes, regrettably lying to you. I was trying to create the perfect life my parents wanted for me. At the time, it seemed impossible to have anything more than a friendship with you, Claire's best friend. The girl next door. My best friend's girlfriend. If I told you about Zach then I'd have to man up and face my true feelings and then everyone else. At the time, I couldn't imagine doing that."

  "It was complicated. I won't deny that, but we could have simplified it, if we really wanted to. We could have—" I don't know what.

  "We were young. We didn't know."

  He's right. I was telling myself a story too: trying to be the picture perfect daughter, friend, and student, keeping my shit together even as it all unraveled before my eyes. It turns out perfectionism has marginal returns, and most of them resulted in me feeling the void of inadequacy.

  It's as though my thoughts lay siege to the space between us, carrying us away from this moment and into the past, a place I don't think either one of us wants to be, but neither do we know how to move forward. At least I don't.

  Carrick trucks on with his story. "I was at a book festival, working long days to make some fast cash to get to Monaco."

  "Couldn't you have called one of your brothers? An aunt or uncle?" His safety net is wide.

  He shakes his head. "I was ashamed, I guess. Also, looking back, it was an adventure. It might sound silly or privileged—not everyone's parents had a ship bound for North America off the coast of Monaco—but I wanted to figure it out myself; to jump without my mom and dad's parachute."

  "The sales of my book How to Lose at Life have flat-lined and when Kat realizes I'm freeloading off her, at least I have my parents' basement."

  My harsh sarcasm hits my target and he winces.

  "None of that is true," he says, rallying with a smile.

  "You're right, at least I have me." I swallow, surprised by how vulnerable I'm being, showing him both my wounds and my strengths.

  Perhaps this battle has gone on longer than I've realized, waged silently within. If so, when you've been through what we have together, there are few risks left. Maybe just one and it still beats inside my chest.

  He continues, undeterred. "Back to Europe—a friend worked at a coffee stall at the book fest, and with her generous, never ending donation of coffee to my cup, I was highly caffeinated and highly motivated. I'll never forget, one afternoon, I was in the parking lot by the security office. It had been raining for days, really putting a damper on the event. Everyone was grouchy and muddy. Then all of the sudden the sun beamed out from behind the thick clouds. This may sound crazy, but it was like the rays shone directly at me and an idea struck."

  I can't help myself. I take a sucker punch. "Did you suddenly realize what an asshole you were?"

  "Blam!" he intones, startling me, reminding me he's a Marine and a storyteller. "It was like a flash from the heavens above. I had the idea for a book. I figured if I could create an elaborate ruse to get from Rome to the States, I could write a novel." He gets to his feet.

  I stand up.

  We're toe to toe. Eye to eye.

  He bends over, picks up the pie plates.

  I pick up my fists and follow him. "So that's it? You were at the book festival, wrote a novel in a few days, got an agent, sold the story to a publisher, and…"

  Carrick reaches up to a high shelf, revealing that sexy sliver of skin above his waistband. I will not succumb to the catnip. Physically, he could be the lead in some of my favorite contemporary romances. I will not be broken down by lust. I get a double zing: one below my belly, the other like sticking my finger in a light socket. Look away, Navy or fight back.

  When he turns, with a glass in hand, I slowly pull my sweater over my head, exposing my stomach and the bottom of my bra.

  If he wants to fight dirty so can I. His eyes dance over my skin. I scowl as I pull my shirt down. "Is there more to the story?" I ask.

  "If you want to hear it," he says with a smile.

  He looks at the glass in his hand as though he's not sure why it's there. "Want something to drink?"

  I grab the corked bottle of wine from the counter, making sure to come close enough for him to feel the high voltage crackling on my skin, but not close enough to electrocute him.

  Chapter 23

  Romantic Marine

  Back in the living room, Carrick stands in front of the windows, holding his glass of wine, a glowing stoplight against the dark backdrop of night.

  I slow down this moment and settle on the far end of the couch.

  "I asked you to meet me so we could talk. That was asking a lot." He sits down next to me, invading my territory. "I'm asking you to read the book and if you grant me a third wish…"

  "I'm not a genie," I quip.

  He grips the side of my head in his hand. "You're magical, Navy."

  I resist the urge to lean into his large palm and let it support the weight of the thoughts crashing around in my skull. Instead, I cackle. Less wish maker, more witch.

  He jerks his hand away. "What?"

  "Is that a line from your book?"

  "No. No, I was serious."

  "I'm magical? No, Carrick. I'm the walking wounded. I'm a mess. I'm fucking losing at life. And why? Because I've been saddled with a broken heart for years. I've considered ditching the thing, but that would cause bigger problems so now I'm trying to mend it."