Me: I’m putting my career on the line for her, Blake. You think I’m taking this lightly?
Blake: Then act like it.
Me: I’m heading to her place right now.
Axel: Bring flowers. Expensive ones. And maybe a helmet in case she throws something.
Me: She’s not going to throw anything.
Axel: You LEFT HER AFTER SHE TRAUMA-DUMPED. She might throw EVERYTHING.
Blake: Don’t make this worse, Ryker. She’s been through hell. The last thing she needs is you adding to it because you can’t handle your own feelings.
Me: I know that.
Axel: WAIT. Did Ryker Kincaid just admit he fucked up?
Axel: Someone call the Supreme Court. This is precedent-setting.
Blake: Fix this. Today. She doesn’t need one more person letting her down.
Me: I will.
Jace: You’ve got this, Ryker.
Axel: Bring the expensive flowers. And maybe practice your apology in the car. Out loud. Trust me.
Me: That’s … actually not terrible advice.
Axel: Dakota’s podcast. I’m a changed man.
Axel: But seriously, good luck. She’s been through enough.
Me: Thanks. I think.
Axel: And if you need bail money, we’ve already proven we can raise it FAST. *winking emoji*
32
FAITH
I’d rehearsed this conversation seventeen times in the shower. Had my points lined up, my tone calibrated, my resolve fortified.
Then Ryker walked through my door in that charcoal suit that should be illegal in twenty countries, and my brain cells immediately staged a walkout.
God, it wasn’t fair. How was I supposed to hate someone who looked like he’d stepped out of my darkest fantasies? Those sapphire eyes could pin me to a wall from across a room. The stubble shadowing his jaw was that perfect three-day length that said,I woke up like this, but probably took careful maintenance. Which was dark, like his hair. That thick, unruly mess I’d tangled my fingers in while screaming his name.
Focus, Faith. Anger. You’re angry.
“I have a question,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
Professional. I could be professional.
He slid his jacket off, and I caught myself tracking the movement of his forearms as he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. The way his muscles shifted under his skin, the casual strength in such a simple gesture.
Last night, he’d shown up when Harper and I were drinking. Sure, I’d been too drunk to have a meaningful conversation, buthe could’ve at least tried. Could’ve acknowledged what had happened between us instead of treating me like a drunk client who needed tucking in and managing.
This morning, I’d woken up, hoping we could finally talk. Work through whatever the hell was happening between us.
