I paused, feeling guilty that I’d made him think he was no more important than anyone else in my life.

I know, I agreed.

He started typing, and I waited, but when he kept going and I hadn’t received a text, I stilled just as much out of gratitude as out of fear.

I was afraid he had more to say that would be hard to hear, but I was also elated that he was talking to me. Albeit texting, but it was still communication, and it was about as much open dialogue as we’d had since he’d moved in.

Patrick turned onto St. Charles and headed east toward the CBD when my phone buzzed.

I opened Christian’s message.

I used to see you on TV or in the newspaper, he wrote. You had time for everyone but me. I used to wonder what was wrong with me, and then I realized that you were just an asshole.

I gritted my teeth as I held the phone and tried to figure out what I was going to say to him. He was right, after all. There was no excuse and no reason good enough.

And I’d known this was coming.

Come on, Tyler. You’ve had fourteen years to figure out how to make this up to him. You got nothing?

My phone buzzed again.

You’re an asshole.

I texted quickly. I know.

A huge asshole! he shot back.

I know, I replied again.

That was all I could do.

He was right, and if I didn’t stay calm, I’d push him farther away.

And I’m sick of this jazz shit! he texted.

I forced away the smile that pulled at my lips. Patrick kept the music light – with no lyrics – per my request, since I often made phone calls or worked on my laptop in the car.

I texted back. What kind of music do you like to listen to?

Rock.

I licked my lips and looked up, calling out to Patrick.

“Patrick, could you put on a rock station, please?” I asked.

Without answering, he began spinning the dial in search of a different station. Finally, once he settled on a tune that sounded angry and talked about “home,” I leaned back in my seat and took the opportunity to push Christian further. He was talking to me – or yelling – but we still hadn’t accomplished anything.

We’ve got a party on Sunday, I texted. You could invite friends.

His phone beeped, and I glanced over out of the corner of my eye to see his eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he started typing.

I don’t want to go to a party.

I continued. Food, music, swimming… You and your friends can enjoy the pool before it gets cold.

He sat there, staring at the text and wiggling his thumbs over the screen, looking like he wasn’t sure how to answer. He hadn’t said no, so I sent another text before he found a way to say no.

I invited Clyde Richmond. His daughter may come. I hoped like hell that enticed him.

The luncheon was for business, but families and significant others were coming. Some bridges needed to be built, but it was supposed to be a relaxed occasion, as well. If Christian liked the girl, as he appeared to – and he had the safety of his friends – maybe he’d brave it.

He began typing, but it was a while before I got another text.

I invited a few people, he wrote.

My jaw ached with a smile, and I looked out the window, letting out a breath. He must’ve sent a mass text to his friends. He was giving me a shot, at least.

I had one foot in the door.

“Are we going home, sir?” Patrick’s voice came drifting back.

And I blinked, realizing I hadn’t told him where we were going.

“Ah, Commander’s Palace,” I told him. I was starving.

“Not again,” Christian blurted out, startling me.

I twisted my head to see him scowling.

And I laughed to myself, because I liked it. Give me anger. Give me annoyance. Just give me something.

I raised my eyebrows in expectation and waved my hand, inviting him to reissue the order to Patrick.

“Camellia Grill,” he told Patrick.

And I slipped my phone into my breast pocket, hoping I wouldn’t need it at dinner.

SEVENTEEN

EASTON

Letting Tyler Marek push me into corners and whisper into my ear right under the noses of everyone around us was going to get me into trouble.

And him.

He had a lot to lose, too.

So why wasn’t I ending it?

I was standing in the middle of a burning room, daring myself to stay as long as possible before it was time to run.

“Are you ready?”

Jack looked over the hood at me, straightening his navy blue and pink polka-dot tie over his pink pin-striped shirt. Not many men would brave such a color, but New Orleans men were a different animal, and it looked good on him. Especially with his matching navy blue slacks.

I smiled lazily. “Ready for what?” I asked, glancing at Kristen Meyer as she climbed out of the back of Jack’s Jeep.

Tyler had said I could bring a friend, and I thought it would be more comfortable – or comforting – to have backup when I knew Jack was going to spend his afternoon schmoozing.

“Are you ready for the party?” Jack repeated. “You’re Miss Antisocial-Constantly-Uncomfortable-Wants-to-Be-Home-Instead-of-at-a-Party-Ever, so I guess I shouldn’t worry, right?”

His lips were spread from ear to ear, pleased with his own assessment of me, and I just rolled my eyes.

“Ah.” Kristen spoke up, smoothing down her sleeveless knee-length peach dress. “So it’s not just me. She’s always difficult.”

She shot me a joking glare as she put her hands on her hips and grinned.