Page 65

I smile despite myself. He smiles back.

“These people aren’t your friends,” he says. “You need to stop worrying about what they think,” he continues, voice low. “Figure out what you actually want for once.”

His words settle over me. They sound so simple when he says them. Terrifyingly simple.

“Maybe you’re onto something,” I admit softly.

Drew smiles and shakes his head.

“Maybe…” He trails off, then laughs under his breath. “God, woman. You’re going to send me gray.”

He reaches over and threads his fingers through mine.

I look at him for a long moment. He really has been scarily patient with me. Kind in a way that makes my chest feel too tight sometimes.

“I think you’d look good with gray hair,” I say, tilting my head as I pretend to examine his hairline. “Very distinguished.”

For a second, Drew just looks at me. That wide, cocky grin slowly softens into something quieter.

I lean my head against his shoulder, letting the comfortable silence settle around us. Outside, the waves roll in steady and endless.

“Can you look up what people are saying about me?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “I haven’t checked in a long time and I just…”

“You shouldn’t care,” he says, but he’s already pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Don’t tell me if it’s bad,” I add quickly as he starts typing. “I mean…do tell me. Just—not the worst stuff.”

“Shh.” His thumb scrolls, eyes scanning. A small smirk tugs at his mouth.

“There’s an article about your sudden disappearance from high society.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty tame. I’ll read the comments.”

He pulls a face.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing terrible. Same old crap — ‘I’d disappear too if I were her.’” He scrolls a little more, then his eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a low, amused laugh.

“What?” I snap, leaning in.

“Another starfish comment.” He tilts the phone toward me, grinning. “I know the truth though, baby.”

I shake my head, equal parts mortified and irritated.

“These idiots need to invent stories about you just so they can feel better about their own boring lives.”

“It still hurts,” I admit.

He reaches over and takes my hand again, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles. “That’s exactly why we don’t look,” he says softly. “Let them rot in their own bullshit while we’re busy living our lives.”

I notice how he’s using a lot of we’s.

He smiles at me then, warm and surprisingly tender. It’s disarming how soothing he can be when he wants to be.

My phone vibrates in my bag, cutting through the moment. I glance down, and my stomach tightens again.