His intense gaze never leaves my face. “You say that a lot.”
My pulse beats loud in my ears. “I’m fine a lot.” I’m trying for breezy, but it’s coming out cat-on-a-running-dryer. “The key is to not think about it. Focus on something else. Like packing,tidying.” I gesture limply to the room, which is only slightly less of a disaster than it was before.
He grimaces at the disheveled bed, the clothes still strewn on every surface. “I don’t think you know whattidymeans.”
I point a finger at him. “That’s the last time I invite you into my room.”
A beat passes before he says, “I hope not.”
This brings a smile to my face, which seems to ease his frown a little bit.
“It’s okay to not feel fine,” he says softly, the earnestness in his face doing its best to crack my defenses. Too bad those things are ironclad.
Because I know better than to believe him.
“And it’s okay to think about your own needs for once,” I say, turning the tables.
He regards me thoughtfully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” he says slowly, “there is one option.”
“What’s that?”
“We could do this for real.”
“Real,” I repeat.
Pink sweeps across his face as he nods. “A relationship.”
My stomach drops. His pulse beats a drumline in his throat, his gaze unwavering on mine.
“You…want to be my boyfriend?” I ask dumbly, before I can think better of it. God help me, I’m at such a loss for how to navigate this land mine of a conversation—with him, and in this fraught moment—that my brain isn’t working properly.
Between my legs, where he remains pressed against me, I feel an unmistakable stiffening. I raise an eyebrow at him.
“The heart wants what it wants?” he says faintly.
“That is not your heart,” I say.
His eyes are all sincerity—he’s shot his shot and is waiting to see if it hit its target. But I can’t give it the space to land.
“It’s no wonder your dick wants me after the things I’ve done to it these past couple days,” I say, steering the ship away from the iceberg.
“You don’t have to tell me. Those memories will visit me on my deathbed,” he says. “But, Ana. I’m serious. What if we—”
“You’re hanging on to your job by a thread,” I interject. My mind kicks into gear, grasping at ways to deflect. “Don’t go saying things that could set fire to it.”
His face shutters at that.Good.I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t have him going down this path any further. This is not open for discussion. I press ahead. “And it won’t help me, either—Craig Waters has already dumped me.”
The dismay that clouds his eyes would be darkly comical if I were in any laughing mood. “Who is Craig Waters?” His voice is sandpaper.
“A producer. I was being considered to host a talk show, kind of like the podcast but on TV. Was supposed to meet with Waters tomorrow in L.A., but he canceled because I no longer fit thewholesome imagethey want to project.”
He seems to be processing everything I just said. To be fair, there’s a lot to unpack there. “A TV show?” is what he goes with first.
“Yeah,” I say. “Probably won’t work out with this producer, but hopefully Nadia can get something else on the books.”
