“Nothing happened,” I assure him, watching his fists clench at his side. “I got out of the cab before anything could happen and sent him home alone.”
Myles cracks his knuckles. “And where does he live?”
“Nice try. Seriously, it’s okay. Let’s just forget it.”
“I—” He contemplates me for a second, then nods reluctantly. “Fine. If you want me to forget it, I will. Although, as your stand-in boyfriend, I have to say—”
A laugh tickles my throat. “What?”
“For the dinner party. I’m your stand-in boyfriend, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t think I’m going to go.”
His face falls. “Really?”
“I wasn’t planning on going after what happened at Bounce. You said you were done with me.”
“I know. I was just…” His eyes search my face as he struggles to find the right words. “It wasn’t fun for me to see you on a date with someone else. I was jealous as hell.” He pauses, then adds, “And I don’t think I was the only one who was jealous that night.”
I open my mouth, ready to spit a sarcastic retort, but I bite it back. Even though I don’t like hearing him say that, I think he’s right.
We stare at each other, the air between us thickening, pulsing with a palpable current of chemistry and emotion and words unsaid. I’m afraid to move in case I get electrocuted.
Eventually, Myles looks away. “I’m not asking you for anything, Cat. I didn’t know… the things you’ve just told me… fuck.” His eyes meet mine again and his face softens. “But I’m not done with you. I shouldn’t have said that.”
My heartbeat skips at the tenderness in his gaze, at the way it looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. For a second, I think he’s lost the battle—that he’s going to hug me, or kiss me—and I’m almost breathless with anticipation.
But his face splits into his usual grin, shattering the tension. “Anyway, I can’t leave you to face your ex-husband at a dinner party alone. What kind of friend would that make me?”
Friend.
I shouldn’t feel the sting I do at that word, but it’s there, mixed with a faint sense of relief. He’s giving me an out and I should take it. I should grab it like a lifeline and hold on tight. That’s the sensible thing to do.
“Well…” I give an uneven laugh. “I would have fixed my hair if I was going to go.”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“It’s pink.”
His cheek twitches playfully. “Shit, did you not mean to do that?”
“Of course.” I smile, inspecting a strand. “But I’d never wear it like that to dinner.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know these people, Myles. It’s a pre-war townhouse on the Upper East Side. I can’t go with pink hair.”
He rests his hands on his hips. “Tell me how the world is going to end if you do.”
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
“Exactly. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to wear. It’s already”—I glance at my phone—“six. By the time I get home and change, it will be too—”
“You don’t haveanythingto wear,” he repeats, his forehead crinkling humorously as he gestures around us with sweeping arms.
“What? No, I mean my own clothes. I don’t have—”
