His shoulders drop on a breath as he moves forward. Before he passes me, he lifts a hand in Joe’s direction and waves.
“You got your shot. Thanks,bud.”
Joe’s face falls into something between disbelief and outrage as the door swings shut. I don’t mean to laugh. It just slips out. The sound surprises both of us as I slide the lock into place.
The apartment feels smaller with him inside. He looks taller here than he does in the open-concept house and pitched baking tent back in LA. I step forward, taking the flowers from him, and leading the way further into my space.
He lingers near the entryway, unsure whether to follow me into the kitchen or move to the living room. Not that it matters, the half-wall counter is the only thing separating the rooms.
I watch him as he takes in the stack of baking books on my side table, the dish towel hanging crooked off the oven handle, the framed photo of Kara and me at the beach last summer, while I fill the only vase I own with water for the flowers.
“Do you want something to drink?”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, the full weight of his piercing blue gaze searching my expression. Being around Alex always gets my pulse racing, but the way my heart hammers as he occupies my space is on a whole other level.
I pretend to straighten that crooked dish towel, but in reality, I’m swiping my clammy palms down the fabric.
“I have almond milk,” I say, peering inside the fridge, knowing it’s basically empty. I grab only the essentials since I’m gone half the week between work and the show.
“And half a Gatorade.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again and he laughs. Which is fair, because who offers a guest almond milk?
“I’m good.”
We stand there facing each other in the quiet of my living room. Alex waits for me to drop onto the corner cushion, clutching an emotional support accent pillow to my chest. He perches on the edge of the middle cushion, bent forward with his elbows on his knees.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to find the right words to start the conversation or if he’s waiting on me. After a minute of silence, I cave first.
“You scared me,” I tell him, watching his forehead wrinkle in concern before turning to face me.
“By showing up here?”
“No. By making me think I didn’t know you.”
He exhales, a little exasperated. “You do know me.”
“I thought I did.” My voice steadies. “Then I found out you have this whole other layer you never mentioned. A father who can bankroll an empire. A deal for your future in place before you even walked into the tent.”
His shoulders straighten at my accusation. I have his full attention now, and I sit up straighter in response to hold it.
“I didn’t hide my family to manipulate you.”
“Then why?”
“Like I said, it was part of the agreement with my father.” He pauses, inhaling sharply. “But also, another part of me just didn’t want to be that guy while I was here.”
“What guy?” I know the answer should be obvious, but I need to hear him say it. I don’t want any assumptions or miscommunication muddying the water between us any more than it already is.
“The one who’s treated differently because of his family.”
I let out a short laugh. “You already are that guy.”
He winces, then blows out a long breath. He looks so tired, but I force myself to push forward with the conversation. No more giving passes for things that need to be addressed immediately.
“Do you know what this competition means to people?” I ask, suddenly needing to know if he understands what some of us have hanging in the balance.
“Of course I do.” His eyes are sincere. I want to reach out, slip my fingers around the hand he has placed on the couch halfway between us. But I don’t.
