As I slide into the sweats, I’m thankful for the truce. Surely, Xander will bite his tongue, no matter how hard he wants to tease me for it. I think back to the lawyer bot from the car ride home and surmise that he’ll bite it until he bleeds, if that’s what it takes. I throw my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back into the living room, searching for my phone.
It pings, reminding me it’s on the charger.
Thinking it’s Em, I swipe it unlocked, and that’s when I see it. A message from Xander.
I’d like to revisit the weather we discussed earlier.
That motherfucker.
My eyes slide to the clock.
5:37PM.
Time of death on our truce.
And just when I’m about to throw my phone into my bag, a photo loads.
It’s Xander. Wet.
White T-shirt see-through. Black running shorts gripping his sculpted thighs. Curls stuck to his forehead.
Fuck. Off.
I pull my hoodie up over my head and close my apartment door behind me.
Angelenos don’t know shit about driving in wet weather.
I’m not just late. I amfuckinglate. And honestly, I’m lucky to be alive.
I race to the sleep study, skidding to a halt outside our room before flinging the door open and announcing, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
I pull my hoodie down and see Ben standing with Xander.
Xander’s wearing dry clothes, but his thick curls are still damp and clinging to his forehead. I ignore how badly I want to witness him run his hands through his hair and tousle them.
Ben offers me a kind smile. “It’s totally fine. Everyone is late today.” I project a smile toward Ben that tells him thank you before my eyes slide to Xander, who’s mouth is set in a straight line. “I’ll be back to wire you up later.” And then, Ben is gone.
I stare at the closed door. Every second I don’t turn around, the tension ratchets.
I don’t know why but with the gag order in place, the energy is charged.
“You’re late,” Xander says. A statement. Not a question. And I don’t know if he’s upset. Or if he’s making friendly conversation in Switzerland. Neutral territory.
“Yep,” I say, even-toned. I still haven’t turned around.
“Why were you late?” Xander says, and this time there’s no doubt there’s a touch of accusation around the edges of his voice.
“Because I left on time,” I say, a white lie for the sake of civility. That’s when I turn around to see a furrowed brow. Xander’s concerned. If he’s going to blame me for ruining this sleep study because it’s wet outside, I’m going to—
“There was a three car pileup on Ventura,” he says, giving me a totally different response. He was worried. About me. My heart unclenches for a whole entire second. For all he knew, his sleep study buddy was crushed under a pile of metal. In this moment, I know my tardiness warrants an apology, but right before the words come out of my mouth, he cuts me off. “I told you it was going to thunderstorm this evening.”
“You did,” I say, slow, trying to regroup after this U-turn right out of our truce and into hostile territory, where the temperature is hot. The satisfaction that Xander caved first has me biting my lip to suppress a smile. The truth is, unfiltered Xander does things to me.
“And you ignored me why?” he says, pressing me for more. “Because meteorology is a scam?” His sarcasm zips through my body, and I feel like I’m coming alive after lounging around at death’s door all afternoon.
I opt to remain quiet and watch as his jaw clenches. The last restraint leaving his body. And suddenly, I want nothing to do with this bullshit truce.
I want unfiltered Xander.
