He shakes his head and wags his finger at me. “Don’t do the cute thing. I’m too mad at you right now.”
“I do a cute thing?” My eyes light up. “What is it?”
“Stop it.”
“Talking?”
“The talking, the big blue eyes, the way you move, the everything,” he says, waving at me.
My heart skips a beat.
“Don’t do the silent cute thing either,” he warns. “I’m not in the mood.”
I have a silent cute thing too? Butterflies dance in my stomach.
“No smiling either,” he adds.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask innocently. “No.”
I lift my hand. “Can I just say one tiny thing?”
He heaves a sigh. “What?”
“I think it’s sweet,” I say earnestly. “And I’m glad you have it, and that you like to read it.”
We gaze at each other for a long moment and my pulse starts to quicken. A charge buzzes in the air and my heart hammers against my ribs. I don’t know what this silent energy between us is, but it’s impossible to turn away. I’m stuck, paralyzed by the pull in his eyes.
I always knew they were a dark brown, but I’ve never noticed the slightly darker ring around them before. They’re mesmerizing, like two shiny onyx gems glimmering against a dark sky. For the first time in my life, I understand why they say eyes are the windows to the soul. His are like endless tunnels that if I gazed at long enough, I might uncover his secrets. His innermost desires. His heart.
I don’t know if he moved closer or if it was me, but suddenly the distance between us has shrunk. My mouth goes dry.
“Ashira,” Caleb murmurs.
The heat in the room turns up, and his half-lidded gaze drops to my lips. I swallow, suddenly terrified. Because the fact that I want him to kiss me right now with a desire bordering on desperation is absolutely horrifying.
Yet sexy too, a devil on my shoulder whispers.
But then my conscious rears its ugly head. This is Caleb! The man who dropped both Judaism and you overnight. Do you really think he wouldn’t do it again? He’s the definition of unstable. And what about Blue Moon Basherts? Is it worth ruining your one chance to save it for a kiss?
The devil on my shoulder shrugs. Maybe? Try it and see?
But then I think of my mother and the company we built together—her very legacy. And I take a step back.
“I think someone’s calling me.”
He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
“I have to go,” I add, ducking under his arm.
“Chicken,” he says softly.
He’s right, of course. I am a chicken. And the worst kind, too. The kind that runs away and digs its face in the sand rather than confront reality. As much as I try to help other people heal their hearts, I’m unable to heal my own.
Because I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared that I don’t even want to go to therapy. I don’t want to heal. The pain is what protects me. It’s the reminder not to trust anyone, to not allow myself to be in a position where I might get hurt again. Life isn’t predictable and people certainly aren’t. I’d much rather play it safe and continue nursing a broken heart than have to start from scratch.
I’m an imposter. No matter how easily I dispense wisdom and guidance, and how much I promote love and marriage from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to bed, I can’t follow my own advice.
I hurry out of the room without a backwards glance.
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