I roll my eyes. “You guys haven’t played that in three years. Not since Lou fractured his tibia.”

“We could play again,” Dad argues. “Whatever.” He squeezes Ezra’s shoulders. “This guy told me he planned to spend the holiday by himself at home! I couldn’t have that.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” I mutter.

Ezra is uncharacteristically quiet through this exchange, watching me curiously as if waiting to see how this will play out. Is that why he came? To get a reaction from me? Was the whole “we’ll keep things professional” a crock of shit? The thought is…disappointing. It shouldn’t be, but it is. And I need to pack those feelings right up into a tight little box where they’ll never see the light of day.

I grab Ezra’s arm, tugging at it as I keep my tight smile plastered on my face. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Oh, let the man have some fun,” Dad protests. “You’re the one always saying no work stuff here.”

I have entered another dimension. That’s the only explanation. I am currently in another reality where my worst nightmares have all come out to play, and my dad is suddenly best friends with my work nemesis who—up until a few weeks ago—I was sleeping with.

“Ezra?”

His eyes flick down to my hand that is still wrapped around his bicep, and all at once I am overly aware of how warm his skin is. I’m acutely aware of the time that’s passed between us since I last touched him. In this moment, I can feel every second.

Finally, he gives me a slow nod. “Sure,” he says casually. “We can talk.”

My dad grumbles the entire time he releases Ezra from his hold. “You come back in a while, yeah? I want to hear how that Petrovsky case turned out.”

“I said no work talk!” I toss over my shoulder as I drag Ezra closer to the shed a few yards away, where there are fewer people.

He follows me easily, and my hand is still clutching his arm, the muscles bunching under my fingers in a way I am doing my best not to think about. It stirs up too many memories of those same muscles tightening and stretching because of the way he was touching me. I don’t stop until we’re both hidden in the shadows just beyond the shed door, releasing my grip on him and giving his chest a light shove.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Dani,” he answers flatly. “Nice to see you too. How’s the weather? You look nice in that dress. Are you enjoying the party?”

Don’t you dare get fluttery. Don’t you do it, Dani.

“Don’t play with me. Why in the world are you here?”

He shrugs. “It’s just like your dad said. I was having lunch at Frank’s this week and ran into him eating alone. He invited me to sit with him, and we got to talking. There’s no evil plot here.”

“But you knew I would be here,” I huff.

I can only hope that the slightly needy edge to my voice is unnoticeable. I’m sure Ezra would find it hilarious to think that I might have missed him. Not that I did.

Even in the dim lighting, his gaze is thoughtful, something there I can’t quite read. “I did.”

“And you didn’t think that would be awkward?”

“Why?” He crosses his arms over his chest, the material of his T-shirt stretching. I refuse to let myself linger on it. In fact, I blame his arms for the weird things running through my head. It’s definitely their fault. And maybe his neck too. It’s entirely too corded. Like it’s begging for me to put my mouth there. “We agreed we were just going to be professional with each other from here on out. Why would it be weird that we’re at the same party?”

I blink, trying to remember what we were talking about. What is wrong with me?

“My family’s party,” I manage after a beat.

His lips twitch. “That I was invited to.”

I throw up my hands in frustration. “You’re impossible.”

“I really don’t see why this is a big deal.” He bends a bit, and by doing so, allows the sun, which has just started to sink behind us, to make his green eyes almost gleam. Not to mention the way I can smell his cologne—a subtle hint of citrus and sandalwood that makes me want to lean into it. “Unless…does it bother you to be around me, Dani?”

“No,” I splutter immediately. “I don’t care.”

I hate the way he studies me, like he knows I’m lying. He doesn’t know that I’m lying. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m lying.

“All right.” He leans back, flashing me an easy smile. “Then I see no problem here. Just two professional colleagues at the same gathering, right?” He looks back over his shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, you interrupted a conversation.”

My mouth drops open as he turns to just leave, and I feel hot all over from anger and—no. Just anger, I tell myself. That’s all it is.

“Oh, and, Dani?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s spoken over the wild rush of blood in my ears. “What?”

“You really do look nice in that dress.”

•   •   •

I didn’t leave the party early like I planned. I keep telling myself that it’s because I want to make sure my parental party of four don’t get too drunk and do something that will embarrass themselves, something Ezra can add to his arsenal, but even in my head it’s flimsy at best. I’ve been lurking by the snack table for the last hour, watching his perfect head of dark blond hair weave through the crowd as he charms everyone he meets. Literally, he’s spoken to every single person here. I’m almost positive.

Well, except me.

He hasn’t said a word to me since our argument by the shed. If I can even call it an argument. I guess if I’m being honest, it was more of an interrogation on my part. One that completely blew up in my face, since it seems Ezra really did just come to hang out because my dad invited him. There’s no way he came here to mess with me somehow, considering he can’t do that while actively avoiding me like he has been.

And I should be grateful for that. I am grateful for that. Mostly. Sort of. I don’t know. I doubt grateful people sip punch as aggressively as I have been for the last twenty minutes. I doubt a grateful person would keep unconsciously homing in on Ezra’s movements as he socializes like he was born for it. A grateful person wouldn’t be secretly miffed that he hasn’t even tried to speak to them again, and they certainly wouldn’t be utterly flummoxed that they would feel that way in the first place. That is, if they did feel that way.

I rub my temple, my head starting to hurt in the third person.

I’m not drunk, not even tipsy, even though I kind of wish I was—but I’m feeling just loose enough to allow myself to really dissect the complicated things Ezra’s presence here is making me feel. Seeing him interact so easily with my family and their friends, like he belongs here—it’s weird. It’s almost like he fits in here more than I do. I don’t know what to make of that. I know I shouldn’t care, that it shouldn’t make me feel an odd sting in my chest watching him fit in so easily, and for a moment I allow myself the fantasy of what it might have been like if it was me who had invited him here. Would he have wanted to come? Would he be having as good a time as he seems to be right now?

But that’s ridiculous, because I wouldn’t invite him here—I didn’t—because that’s not something we did. Definitely not anything close to what we were.

I take another sip of my drink, watching him bend to laugh at something Mrs. Liechman is whispering in his ear. It’s preposterous for me to be jealous of his laugh, since the woman is in her sixties, and he’s not my damned boyfriend—so why the hell is my stomach twisted into knots? It’s easier to just blame Ezra. It’s always easier to blame him rather than admit anything that I might regret later, even if it’s only to myself.

I can’t help but wonder if he’s been with someone else these last few weeks. It’s not like we ever said we were exclusive, even when we were…whatever we were, and it’s also not something I ever really allowed myself to dwell on. But what’s more surprising than me pondering Ezra’s love life since the time we parted ways, I think, is the sheer gut punch that is imagining him touching someone else. My head fills with images and whispered words and soft touches that are for someone else, and I realize with stunning clarity that I…hate it. I shouldn’t hate it. I can’t let myself hate it. Ezra Hart is the fucking Heartbreak Prince, and that’s exactly what’s waiting for me if I don’t get my head on straight and remember just what it is that he and I are—were to each other.