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I resist the urge to wipe my hand against my trousers. I want to feel the charge lighting up between us, even if I don’t want her dabbing napkins on my crotch in public.
My jaw flexes as the current slips up my arm. “I can manage the cleanup.”
She swallows. “I’m so—”
“Sorry?” I raise my eyebrow. “Can we have a word?”
She nods glumly, and as I dry myself off, I lead her toward one corner of the room.
“Look, I know I made a terrible first impression, and for that, I apologize. But is this how it’s gonna be when you’re working here? You tossing drinks? Making scenes?”
“No, I swear.” Fear flashes across her face. “You caught me on a bad day. I never do this stuff. Ask my friends.”
“Well, if Jace is one of your friends—”
“He’s not. He’s my ex.”
Oh. Oh, shit—it all makes sense.
“Of course he is,” I murmur.
She folds her arms across her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The bite in her voice catches me off guard. “Look, maybe you and I should start over.”
Cristina opens her mouth to say something, and then her gaze drops as if she thinks better of it. I try to see things from her perspective—the inhaler, the spotlight on us, the ex who shoots off his mouth. I’ve seen the look on her face before. The moment someone realizes they’ve trusted the wrong person. Usually, I was the reason why.
Still, even with all that, for one split second, the urge to apologize is overwhelming.
But before I can, Cristina says, in a voice so heavy with sorrow it hits me right in my bones, “Sometimes it’s too late to start over. But I am sorry.”
Then she turns and walks out, and I’m left feeling like the biggest piece of shit in the whole world.
I chuckle bitterly to myself. In less than an hour, I’ve met a woman who flipped me inside out, embarrassed me, and then turned the tables again so that I feel like shit.
How the hell has she managed that?
And what’s gonna happen when I see her next?
Chapter 6
Cristina
“Last one,” I say, opening the toaster oven and pulling out the morning’s final Bitty Being.
The four-inch-tall girl figurine has big green eyes, long, brown braids, and reads a book.
“Paige is going to love you.”
I take a moment to scrutinize all three tiny beings—a bookworm for Paige, a meditating guru for Maya, and a serious clipboard manager for Derek.
I trace a finger over Derek’s figurine to make sure the hair swoop is perfect. The coif is so well done my finger practically launches off the top of the sculpture’s head. Even Derek won’t find anything wrong with this one—no matter how hard he tries.
And he will try.
I pull out my phone and take a picture, then drop the image into a group text.
Me: What do y’all think? Will Derek like this?
