Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“That’s not weird.” It did, however, make his chest icy and heavy. What she’d said about Alec feeding her. Tisha’s picture. The obvious fact that she was a food engineer who focused on addressing food insecurity. He wasn’t going to connect dots until she asked him to, but he reserved the right to nurse the cold, aimless anger that began churning at the bottom of his stomach.

“Not a huge fan of eating on the go, either.” He opened a drawer and casually took out two place mats. “Glasses and plates are in that cupboard. Make yourself useful, Dr. Siebert.” Her face betrayed nothing, but there was a trace of relief in her shoulders.

“Is this French toast?” she asked once they sat at the table.

He poured coffee in her cup. “Yes.”

“And this is the fancy dish your fancy chef ex taught you to make?” She sounded skeptical.

“Never said that the dish had to be fancy. And I recommend you try it before you say one more word you will regret.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she poured syrup on her toast, covered it with some of the fresh cream and the mix of berries, brought a bite to her lips with the air of someone who was doing him a big favor, and after chewing for a handful of seconds covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Holy shit.”

He gave her his most told you so look.

“What the hell?” She seemed affronted. “How?”

“Secret recipe.”

“It’s French toast.”

“As you now know, not all French toast is created equal.”

“You’re not going to tell me what’s in it?”

“Maybe later.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you behave.”

She took more slow, leisurely bites, eating in a precise, methodical way that reminded him of the morning spent in her lab, and he watched her with a sense of accomplishment that couldn’t possibly be justified.

What the fuck was she doing to him?

“I have a request,” she said, dabbing a napkin to her mouth.

“I told you, it’s a secret.”

“Not that.”

“What, then? A story?”

“It doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to . . . I don’t need the terrible parts, if you don’t want to share them. I just want to know about your ex-fiancée.”

Ah. “What, precisely?”

She scouted for the perfect question, then settled on: “Who broke the engagement?”

“She did.”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t love her the way she wanted to be loved.”

Rue tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

By now it had been long enough that when he thought about McKenzie, the only feelings left were affection and gratitude. Their last conversation, though . . .

You are a successful adult man, and yet you put more effort into some harebrained vendetta you’re chasing with your codependent friends than into being actually happy. You will choose your stupid revenge plan over me anytime, and we both know it.

You want to be in love with me. You want to wake up in the morning and think of me. You want to want me, but you just don’t.

You can’t fix it, because this is not about what you do—it’s about what you feel. The kind of love I’m looking for, not everyone has the capacity for it, Eli.

McKenzie’s words may no longer be the sharp knife they’d been three years earlier, but the sting remained. “Not enough.” His tongue roamed the inside of his cheek. “She meant that I didn’t love her enough.”

“Was she right?”

A beat, and then he forced himself to nod. That was what hurt the most.

“Are you two still friends?”

“Friendly. She wanted a clean break, but I hear from her more now that she’s found someone else and is . . . happier than she’d ever been with me, for sure.”

“Are you jealous of him?”

“I . . . maybe. A little. McKenzie was—is—fantastic. I couldn’t give her what she needed, and I’m glad she’s getting it from someone else. But I can’t help being . . .” He made a resigned gesture. “Envious might be more accurate.”

Rue stared at the heavy rain, pondering the matter like it was a complex set of assays to be performed. “Couldn’t you? Give her what she needed, that is. Or did you just not want to?”

It was such a loaded, deceptively barbed question, Eli almost wondered if she’d ever spoken with McKenzie. But Rue was guileless. And curious. “I don’t know. I hope it’s not the former.”

She nodded. “I might be like that, too.”

“Like what?”

“Incapable of loving people the way they deserve.”

“Really? What about Florence? Don’t you love her?”

She glanced away. “I thought I did. I know I do, but maybe not enough, if I’m betraying her by being here with you.” She took a long, calming breath, then looked at him again.

“What about romantic love?” Eli’s heart pounded, and he wasn’t sure why. “You think you could manage that?” he asked her.

Asked them.

“Maybe. Or maybe some people are too broken. Maybe . . . maybe things have happened in their lives, in their past, that have damaged them so bad, they’re never going to get happy endings with the loves of their lives.” She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “Maybe some people are meant to be tragedies.”