More tears stream down my face as I take in the familiar gate that protects Huxley’s house. She isn’t wrong. God, I’d hurt Kelsey only weeks ago with my stupid mouth, talking without thinking, and . . . and she forgave me. I take a deep breath as the driver presses a button and the gate slides open. No turning back. As we drive through, I see Huxley standing outside his door, on his porch, waiting for me.

“Oh God, I see him. Kelsey, I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m a mess.”

“Then be a mess in front of him. I love you, sis. You have a beautiful heart. Share it with him.” And then she hangs up just as the driver puts the car in park.

I wipe frantically at my tears, but unfortunately, they keep falling, even as Huxley steps up to the car and opens the door. When he catches sight of me, I see the devastation that passes through his eyes before he offers his hand to me.

Not ready to hold his hand, I get out of the car without his help.

He doesn’t say anything, but I see the disappointment in his shoulders from my denial.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Thanks for coming over.”

I wipe at my face and just nod, my throat tight, so choked up that squeezing out a word right now feels next to impossible.

Raw, tumultuous emotions beat through me, and from the sight of him in a pair of simple jeans and a T-shirt, his hair ruffled from his hand running through it, those emotions skyrocket, sending me into a tailspin of uncertainty.

Should I be here?

Should I give him a second chance?

If I feel this awful from one bout of heartbreak, what could he possibly do to me in the future?

And why exactly am I suffering from such intense emotions?

Probably because Kelsey is right. I love him so much, more than I thought. My heart is drawn toward him. My heart aches for him. But my heart is also wary. He’s playing tug-of-war with my heart, ripping and tearing it in every direction, stirring up anxiety and uncertainty.

“Do you mind if we go inside?” he asks. When I shake my head, he gestures toward the door, and when I step in front of him, he places his hand on my lower back. It feels like a bolt of lightning to my spine, forcing it to straighten, go stiff. He notices quickly and removes his hand, probably interpreting it as me not wanting his touch. But my reaction wasn’t because I didn’t want the touch, it was because I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it . . .

He opens the door for me, and when I walk through, he says, “I have everything set up in the dining room.”

Everything set up? What does that mean?

What exactly did he have to set up?

Anxious and nervous, I walk toward the dining room, where I see the table set for two. Two large cloche serving dishes, two glasses filled with water, and a manila folder with two pens have been laid on the table. The lights are dimmed, Fleetwood Mac plays in the background, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul in the house other than me and Huxley.

He walks past me to the chair I normally sit in, and he pulls it out, waiting for me to take a seat. Questioning everything in my head, I take the seat and glance toward the folder, my mind racing. What’s inside it?

Huxley takes a seat as well, but instead of facing his plate, he scoots his chair close to mine and turns toward me.

“Lottie.”

Taking a deep breath, I turn toward him as well, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“Baby . . .” he says quietly while reaching out and wiping away the tear. “Please don’t cry.”

“Wh-what do you . . . want, Huxley?” I ask, getting the words out.

With a concerned gaze, he sits straighter and says, “I want you, Lottie.”

“You screwed that up.”

“I know. Trust me, I know how bad I screwed this up. It’s been the biggest mistake of my life, charging into our home, and sticking blame on you for something I know, deep down, you would never do.” It doesn’t slip past me that he said our house. “And I’ve tried to figure out how to make this up to you, how to show you how sorry I am, and I realized, maybe I should bring it back to where we started.”

Slightly confused, I ask, “What do you mean?”

From the folder, he pulls out a stack of stapled papers. When my eyes land on it, I realize it’s our contract.

He stands from his chair and walks over to the corner of the dining room where a buffet table lines the wall. Sitting on top of it, plugged in, is a paper shredder. Without a pause, he sends the contract into the paper shredder, and the deafening sound of it eating up our contract echoes through the room.

And for some reason, it hurts. That was the thing that bonded us together. It’s what freed me of my student loans. Is that gone too? It’s what brought me close to Huxley, and he tore it up without a blink of an eye.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, my anguish clear in my voice.

“Because we need to start fresh, Lottie.” He walks back to the table and takes a seat. He reaches for my hand but I don’t let him have it. Dipping his head in defeat, he says, “Lottie, please, you’re not making this easy on me.”

“Do you think I should?” I ask. “Because you sure as hell didn’t make it easy on me last night when you were accusing me of telling Ellie the truth.”

“I know, but—”

“And do you think it was easy on me, seeing the absolute disdain you had for me?”

“No, but—”

“And do you think it was easy on me, knowing the man that I trusted, that I was falling for, didn’t trust me to keep him safe with our secret?”

“No. But, Lottie—”

“I don’t know why I came here.” I stand from my chair.

Huxley stands as well. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” I say. “This was stupid.”

I head toward the entryway, but Huxley tugs on my hand, spinning me back around. With anger in his eyes, he says, “Sit down, Lottie.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said sit. Down.” He speaks through his teeth, and in that instant, my sorrow turns to anger.

“Who the hell do you think you are—”

He moves toward me and gently pushes me up against the dining room wall, cutting my words short. My breath catches in my throat as his one hand pins me in place and the other strikes the wall, propping him up.

“I’m trying to apologize, damn it,” he says, his anger spiking.

“And you think this is the way to do it?”

“Do you have a better idea?” he asks, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re so goddamn stubborn that pissing you off seems to be the only way to make you listen.”

“You hurt me, Huxley. I don’t want to listen.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.” He sees right through me. “If you didn’t want to be here, then you never would’ve gotten in that car, and I know you, Lottie. You love me—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t.”

He presses harder against me, trapping my breath in my lungs. “Don’t you dare fucking lie to me. You don’t lose feelings like that overnight. Now, is that how you want to have this conversation, with me possessing you? Because I’d rather be civil with you, not revert to our old ways of communication. But if I need to, I’ll hold you here like this, all night, until you listen.”

I wet my lips as my body heats with lust.

Goddamn it.

I don’t want to lust after him.

I don’t want to envision the kind of delicious torture he could put me through in this position, waiting for me to communicate properly.

“Are you going to listen to me?” he asks, repeating himself.

I give it a few breaths before I say, “Fine.”

He releases me and then takes my hand, which I let him have, and he walks me back to the table, where we both take a seat.

When we’re settled, he asks, “Are you done being stubborn?”

“Are you done being an asshole?”

And just like that, the smallest of smirks pull at his lips. Just like the beginning of our relationship, we’re back at ground zero, me irritated, him taking some sort of joy out of it.