“It’s my fault and I’m sorry. I think . . . Remember when you said things could get confusing if we don’t, you know, have boundaries, and I agreed and then we . . .”
“Proceeded to ignore it completely?”
“Yeah . . . I think you were probably right and I’m sorry if I . . . Things just got a little intense and I didn’t know what to do, so I panicked, and then when you didn’t say anything, I convinced myself that you agreed and that we just needed some time and space and I didn’t mean to make you think . . . No, please know it was the opposite of that, even if it was . . .”
“Was what?”
“A mistake,” she whispers. “Even if it was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, because if this is what happens when they sleep together one time, three days of agony while he contemplates how miserable he’s going to be once she’s out of his life for good, then . . . yeah, it was a mistake. But even though it’s true, that doesn’t mean they have to wallow in it, at least not more than they already have. “It was a good mistake though.”
Ah, there it is, the affectionate eye-roll and a small smile that she bites back with her teeth against her bottom lip. Okay, okay, that’s good.
“It was a very good mistake. But . . . probably one that shouldn’t happen again.”
“You’re . . . probably right.”
“I usually am,” she shoots back and he takes an instinctive step closer.
“That’s true,” he says and when she meets his gaze again, it nearly knocks him over.
Fuck. Her eyes.
He steps back and she does too, giving herself a little shake.
“Sorry, I . . .” he starts.
She nods. “Yeah, me too. We just need to . . . not.”
“Right,” he agrees.
“Why were you, uh . . . Did you come here just for this?” she asks.
“No. I mean, I was about to text you actually because I was being a chickenshit about it, but then my mentor, Paolo, he reached out. He’s in town and he wants to meet up for dinner. You’re invited, obviously, if you want to come.”
“Paolo, from all your adventures in Turkey and Rapa Nui and . . .”
“. . . and Ireland. Yeah.”
“I’ve always wanted to meet him.”
“You have?”
“I can’t even count how many stories you’ve told about the guy. He’s basically a mythological hero to me right now. It’ll be cool to see that he’s flesh and blood and not a figment of your imagination.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then you’re gonna meet him tonight, at seven.”
“Seven?” she asks, blinking at him and then looking down at herself. “I . . . have to start getting ready now.”
“You have three hours.”
“My hair, Xavier. My hair is a disaster.” He opens his mouth to disagree, even though she’s right, but she just raises a finger to cut him off. “Do not speak. I’ll be ready to go in time, but now you have to get out of my way.”
“You got it, boss,” he says, and she smiles at that, the way she always has before, and something warm squeezes inside his chest at it and then loosens for the first time in three damn days. They’re okay. They’re going to be okay.
“Oh,” she says, looking down at her hand. “Does he . . . Should I wear . . . Does he think that we’re . . .”
“Wear the ring,” Xavier manages to rasp. “You know how word gets around. He thinks we’re engaged, so we might as well keep it up.”
