It’s a text from . . . Paolo?
Paolo Esposito.
His boss.
Well, really his former professor and future boss. He doesn’t technically work for him right now.
Paolo’s a world-renowned archaeologist, the man who brought him along on his first summer dig, who showed him the right way to excavate, and whose philosophy of maintaining and housing artifacts in their home countries took hold so completely, Xavier found himself ignoring the call of some of the top archaeology programs in the world, to give preservation and repatriation, through native museums, libraries and archives, his full attention.
—Hey X. I’m in town. Dinner?
Shit.
Well, not really. He likes Paolo. The man is more of a father than his actual dad ever was, but how will he explain all of this? Especially if Bianca’s not speaking to him.
Although maybe that’s better. Might be easier if Paolo doesn’t know about this clusterfuck of a fake engagement with the love of his life. Might be? Shit, it definitely will be.
—Sure.
—Nunziata’s at 7? Also, what’s this I hear about you being engaged?
Shit.
Really, he should have known better. Academia’s a smaller town than Stars Hollow. Of course it got back to Paolo that he’s engaged, or fengaged, or whatever he is right now.
—Nunziata’s at 7. It’s a long story.
—I bet it is. She coming with you? Reservation for two or three?
It’s as good an excuse as any. So instead of sending her a text from across the same apartment, he pushes up out of his chair and makes the ten-step walk from his bedroom to hers. Raising his hand to knock, he almost raps her in the forehead when she opens the door.
“I . . . I heard you walk over here and stop,” she says, looking somewhere over his shoulder instead of meeting his eyes.
She . . . doesn’t look great.
Well, scratch that, she always looks gorgeous, but there are some dark circles under her eyes, her hair is somehow both frizzy and flat around her shoulders, and her ratty old Cal Bears t-shirt and USC Trojans sweatpants speak volumes.
Fuck.
He really must have screwed up.
Badly.
“I . . .” He can’t ask her about dinner, not yet, he has to make this right, whatever it is. “I’m sorry if I . . . I mean, clearly I did do something, but you gotta know, Bianca, I’d never hurt you on purpose and whatever it was . . . I had no idea, not that it’s any excuse, but . . . shit . . . Are you okay?”
That has her eyes darting to meet his, wide and surprised.
“What? No . . . no, that’s not—Jesus, Xavier, absolutely not. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did more right in one night than most guys have ever . . .”
“Yeah?” he asks, an eyebrow ticking up, somehow both enraged at the men who came before him that didn’t prioritize her pleasure and thrilled that he was the one who was able to make her feel that way.
“Yes,” she affirms, wrapping her arms around her middle, hugging herself tightly. All he wants to do is replace her arms with his and hold her close and make everything okay. “Is that why . . . why you wouldn’t talk to me, though, because you thought you hurt me?”
“I just figured . . .” He trails off. “You left for work and you didn’t say anything and then when you got back, you avoided me, and I figured I did something to make you uncomfortable.”
“More likeIdid something that made me uncomfortable,” she mutters.
“What?”
