It’s been the longest three days of his entire life. And that includes the three-day hike he did in the Peruvian desert because it looked cool on a buddy’s Instagram and his feet nearly melted into the sand.
How he ever lived without her before, he has no idea, but now that he knows what it’s like to be with her, and not just having the most mind-blowing sex of his entire life, but simply being with her, Xavier knows he’s addicted, and quitting cold turkey is fucking torture.
He could be working on his thesis, making progress on that book he wants to publish one day, even just . . . packing up his shit that has suspiciously managed to spread from his suitcases and boxes around the apartment in the time he’s spent here.
It was supposed to be temporary, but he finds that his life seems to slide up against hers and fit, if not perfectly, then at least without too much chaos.
Then again, maybe it’s not his stuff that’s the problem.
Maybe it’s just . . . him.
Because as much as he’d like to blame himself for the three days that they’ve barely seen each other, just call himself a fucking coward – but one with self-preservation instincts at least – it’s not him doing the avoiding.
It’s her.
And that’s . . . unacceptable.
Not . . . not that she has to see him. If she doesn’t want to, that’s her call, as much as it rips his heart to shreds.
But . . . he’s desperate to know why.
If he’d done something she didn’t like, even though she very much seemed to be enjoying herself, or if he made her uncomfortable or, God fucking forbid, if he’d somehow pressured her into something that she didn’t really want . . .
He’d never forgive himself for that.
Because what else is he supposed to think?
Bianca isn’t the kind of woman to just . . . run away. She faces things head on; always has in all the time he’s known her. So . . . it had to have been something he did or said or . . . didn’t do or say.
Fuck.
He pushes away from the desk and his laptop, the screen having gone black from the complete lack of progress he was making while staring at the mass of words, the lines blurring and blending as his mind spins out of control.
Maybe . . .
He flops back onto the bed and grabs the book he’s been reading off the nightstand, the first in that series she told him about. Amelia Peabody Emerson’s namesake is hilarious andbadass. Bianca was right, the history is solid, but . . . he can’t make his mind stop racing. Tossing the book to the side, he picks up his phone and swipes and taps until her contact comes up.
The last text message he sent was from the other night, after that ridiculous farce of a gender reveal, but before the concert. He’d run out to Ralph’s and asked if they needed anything. She just responded with a little cat and a fish-bone emoji, which had him scouring the aisles for Amelia’s favorite cat food.
And as much as he’s kind of sweet on that cat, the idea that the last text exchange they have could be that meaningless and ordinary feels . . . wrong.
God, he’s so gone on this girl.
He just needs to suck it up and talk to her, and maybe a quick text could do the trick.
—Are we okay?
He types it out and stares at it, but doesn’t hit send.
It’s so glib and impersonal and she’s literally on the other side of the wall he’s facing.
He should just go over there and knock on her bedroom door and ask if he fucked up and how he can make it up to her . . . except to make sure not to sound suggestive if he says that last thing because based on the last three days, that’s the opposite of what she wants.
Ding!
“Shit,” he curses, nearly dropping his phone when it goes off in his hand.
It’s not Bianca.
