She nodded.

“Okay. This is what’s going to happen—now we sleep, in my bed. Together. And when we wake up, we do this again. And we stop bullshitting ourselves and each other about whether this is the last time, whether we’re going to stop doing this, whether we have any control over how much we want this.”

To her credit, she hesitated for only a couple of seconds. When she nodded at him again, earnest, a wave of relief crashed into him. “No, Rue. You say it. Say that this is not the last time. Promise me.”

That took her longer. But she did manage to make her way around the words, and when he heard a soft “I don’t want this to be the last time,” he picked her up, toweled her off, and carried her to bed.

21

WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO THAT WITH ME?

ELI

Eli wasn’t one for naps.

It had been a problem back in college, his near pathological inability to fall asleep during the day, especially when pregame rest had been mandatory; now that he’d escaped the NCAA exploitation machine, it only meant that any sleep he didn’t get at night couldn’t be made up for.

Rue had no such issues. She was breathing evenly a minute after he’d settled her on the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared for a long time, feeling creepy and teenage-ish and helpless to stop, feeling euphoric and smitten. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing anything like this, which meant that he should tread carefully, that she could be dangerous.

He pushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear and made his way downstairs.

Forty-five minutes later a summer thunderstorm was in full swing, and Rue padded into the kitchen wearing yesterday’s clothes and not the T-shirt he’d left out for her on the bed, folded on top of a pair of Maya’s sweats.

He’d never been less surprised.

Her gaze skittered to Tiny, napping blissfully on one of his many beds, then flitted to the bowls of whipped cream and fruit on the counter, then landed on the pan near the stove. “What are you doing?”

“Fulfilling the promise I used to lure you here.”

“You have done that.” She looked sleepy and beautiful and confused. He had to physically restrain himself to avoid pulling her into him.

“The other promise. I said I’d cook for you, remember?”

“You don’t have to.”

Do not hug her. Do not kiss the tip of her nose. Do not run your hand up and down her back. You don’t have to stick your fingers in her hair, and you most definitely do not need to fucking smell her throat. It’ll just send her running faster than a reminder that you still own Kline’s loan. “Come on, Rue.” He gave her a chiding look. “I can’t just fuck you nonstop without feeling like more of an asshole than I actually am. I’m going to have to feed you, just to keep you alive and responsive. No offense, but I’m not into the alternative.”

She glanced away and then lowered her eyes, which was interesting. Atypical. Then said, “I’m weird about food.” He kept his face straight. Made no movement. She was skittish, and he didn’t want to spook her. He watched her swallow, twice, and offered no reaction when she added, “I struggle with non-sit-down meals. And with time constraints.” She held his eyes. “I’d rather not eat than eat in a hurry or standing up.”

“That’s not weird.” It did, however, make his chest icy and heavy. What she’d said about Alec feeding her. Tisha’s picture. The obvious fact that she was a food engineer who focused on addressing food insecurity. He wasn’t going to connect dots until she asked him to, but he reserved the right to nurse the cold, aimless anger that began churning at the bottom of his stomach.

“Not a huge fan of eating on the go, either.” He opened a drawer and casually took out two place mats. “Glasses and plates are in that cupboard. Make yourself useful, Dr. Siebert.” Her face betrayed nothing, but there was a trace of relief in her shoulders.

“Is this French toast?” she asked once they sat at the table.

He poured coffee in her cup. “Yes.”

“And this is the fancy dish your fancy chef ex taught you to make?” She sounded skeptical.

“Never said that the dish had to be fancy. And I recommend you try it before you say one more word you will regret.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she poured syrup on her toast, covered it with some of the fresh cream and the mix of berries, brought a bite to her lips with the air of someone who was doing him a big favor, and after chewing for a handful of seconds covered her mouth with her hand and said, “Holy shit.”

He gave her his most told you so look.

“What the hell?” She seemed affronted. “How?”

“Secret recipe.”

“It’s French toast.”

“As you now know, not all French toast is created equal.”

“You’re not going to tell me what’s in it?”

“Maybe later.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If you behave.”

She took more slow, leisurely bites, eating in a precise, methodical way that reminded him of the morning spent in her lab, and he watched her with a sense of accomplishment that couldn’t possibly be justified.

What the fuck was she doing to him?

“I have a request,” she said, dabbing a napkin to her mouth.

“I told you, it’s a secret.”

“Not that.”

“What, then? A story?”

“It doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to . . . I don’t need the terrible parts, if you don’t want to share them. I just want to know about your ex-fiancée.”

Ah. “What, precisely?”

She scouted for the perfect question, then settled on: “Who broke the engagement?”

“She did.”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t love her the way she wanted to be loved.”

Rue tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

By now it had been long enough that when he thought about McKenzie, the only feelings left were affection and gratitude. Their last conversation, though . . .

You are a successful adult man, and yet you put more effort into some harebrained vendetta you’re chasing with your codependent friends than into being actually happy. You will choose your stupid revenge plan over me anytime, and we both know it.

You want to be in love with me. You want to wake up in the morning and think of me. You want to want me, but you just don’t.

You can’t fix it, because this is not about what you do—it’s about what you feel. The kind of love I’m looking for, not everyone has the capacity for it, Eli.

McKenzie’s words may no longer be the sharp knife they’d been three years earlier, but the sting remained. “Not enough.” His tongue roamed the inside of his cheek. “She meant that I didn’t love her enough.”

“Was she right?”

A beat, and then he forced himself to nod. That was what hurt the most.

“Are you two still friends?”

“Friendly. She wanted a clean break, but I hear from her more now that she’s found someone else and is . . . happier than she’d ever been with me, for sure.”

“Are you jealous of him?”

“I . . . maybe. A little. McKenzie was—is—fantastic. I couldn’t give her what she needed, and I’m glad she’s getting it from someone else. But I can’t help being . . .” He made a resigned gesture. “Envious might be more accurate.”

Rue stared at the heavy rain, pondering the matter like it was a complex set of assays to be performed. “Couldn’t you? Give her what she needed, that is. Or did you just not want to?”

It was such a loaded, deceptively barbed question, Eli almost wondered if she’d ever spoken with McKenzie. But Rue was guileless. And curious. “I don’t know. I hope it’s not the former.”