“I fucked up, Amelia,” he mutters to the cat as he paces back and forth in the living room. She’s joined him, tail in the air waving back and forth, slinking up and down the kitchencounter, which he’s pretty sure she’s not supposed to be on, while he burns a similar path across the blue-green-patterned area rug, running a hand through his hair over and over again. Maybe yanking on it will jump-start his brain, get it working again so he can figure out a way to make it right.
He doesn’t even have work to distract him anymore, because he fucking nailed the shit out of his defense.
Dr Xavier Byrne, PhD.
His academic career ending with a flourish.
The degree everyone told him he was crazy to pursue, the one that’ll allow him to work toward his real passion, the key to the job in Greece and another and another until eventually he has enough bona fides to start his own foundation, dedicated to the repatriation of stolen artifacts. He’sfinallyheaded in that direction after years of study and . . . and . . .
Somehow the only thing in his head is how he ran out on Bianca.
He’s trying not to think too hard about why, though, because if he lets his mind drift to the way she looked pressed against the bookshelf, how responsive she’d been to his touch, how much he’d wanted to drop to his knees, before being stunned when she fell to hers . . .
Fuck.
Then he’d fled, like the fucking coward he is.
Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?
He’s known just how dangerous it could be to allow himself to get this close to her since the beginning, and instead of saying something about it, he’s just . . . letting her believe, what? That they’re friends with benefits? No, not quite right. Co-conspirators who spontaneously hooked up one time, after kissing one other time.
Yeah, something like that.
Shit.
What a fucking mess.
Maybe he’ll just lock himself in his bedroom and hide.
His bedroom in her apartment, what a great plan. Truly foolproof.
But that’s pretty on par with his courage level so far in all of this.
Or maybe he should just call it off now, cut his losses, beg people he’d barely call friends for a couch to sleep on, and go full hermit so there’s no chance of running into her during his last two months in LA.
A slightly more reasonable plan.
Still a fucking coward though.
Amelia leaps down from the counter and heads toward the door.
Too late.
She’s home.
“Hi baby, no, you have to stay inside,” Bianca coos softly as she moves into the apartment, edging through the door and then shutting it firmly behind her as Amelia weaves around her ankles.
And here he is again, jealous of the cat.
“Hey,” he says, his voice cracking on the single syllable like he’s twelve years old again.
Leaning back against the door, Bianca looks over to him. He can’t read her expression. It feels . . . expectant, maybe? Like she’s waiting for him to say something other than justhey. Not that he’s going to.
“Hey,” she says back when he can’t come up with anything that sounds even remotely sane. “So . . . can we, uh . . . can we talk?”
Of course she manages to start the conversation. She’s so much braver than him.
“Yeah, we probably should, right?”
