Christian is trying to make up his mind about something.

Maybe it’s me.

After the Bowery appearance, Christian starts texting me—and not quick and dirty notes to plan our next rendezvous. In fact, he doesn’t ask me to come to his apartment, not on Saturday, not even on Sunday.

At first, when the messages start coming in, I’m not sure what the hell is going on at all.

Tell me about you. How many siblings do you have?

None!

Only child?

Only child.

Must have been lonely.

When you’re an only, your birthday budget is huge :)

You want a big birthday budget? ;)

I want a lot of things…I’m greedy.

The tone always turns flirty, with a strong undercurrent of desire, but he makes no indication that he wants me to come over. Sunday night goes by, and Monday, and Tuesday. Carolyn tells me he’s at the Swan most nights, but she can’t tell if he’s taking a date with him or not. The woman I met that first time, Melody, is in some photos with him in the tabloids, but they’re never touching—Christian walks ahead of her like he doesn’t even see her.

Well, he’s a grown man. He can do whatever he wants, as much as it stings.

Meanwhile, the messages keep coming.

Where are your parents from?

Michigan

Is that where you grew up?

Yeah, right in the middle.

What’s it like there?

It’s a few bigger cities surrounded by farmland. Everyone vacations up north

Should I go?

With me or alone?

Haha

It’s not that he’s disappeared. In fact, he does the opposite. He leans into my PR plan so aggressively that he even starts coming up with events to attend without me.

It makes me a little nervous that I don’t have control over all of his appearances, but what can I do about it? Nothing. His free time belongs to him.

I wish more of it belonged to me. Then again…

I see him about every other day for our scheduled planning meetings. He sits across the desk from me, his eyes loitering over the curves of my body beneath the suit, the same smoldering half-smile on his face, but he doesn’t lean over to whisper something filthy in my ear to make me wet right to the core. Then, on the way out, he’ll catch me at the door, press me up against the wall, and kiss me like it’s going to save him from drowning.

It’s like we’ve gone back to the 1950s, but with cell phones. Suddenly, sex at his apartment is off the table completely—at least, he never mentions it. Suddenly, we’re stealing kisses in the back of the Town Car, but when we reach our destination, he’s distracted, disengaged.

I so badly want to ask him what’s going on, but I can’t. I can handle it if he’s not into me anymore—if all of that was a fling, a fun distraction from real life—but I don’t want to hear it. Not yet.

I decide to give myself until the house sells. When I’m finally free of it, I’ll ask Christian what’s going on.

If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?

Somewhere with great Wi-Fi

That’s it?!?

That’s my big requirement. I can do cities or small towns

The real question is…what are you going to do there?

There’s a lot I’d like to do

I know

After the second media appearance, I’m jittery and distracted. I spent the entire time analyzing Christian’s every glance at me. I get into the car and immediately his hands are on my face, pulling me toward him, devouring my mouth, savoring the flavor of our kiss.

It’s so good, so right, that I don’t think to call a halt to it and demand to know what the texting is about, demand to know why he hasn’t taken me back to his place, demand to know where he stands on all of this. On us.

I don’t understand this game we’re playing.

Has he already moved on?

Was one time enough with me?

The doubt takes root and begins to flourish even as the messages keep coming, even while we have daylong conversations listing off the smallest details of our lives.

Though the contractors finish the repairs in the basement, it takes another week and a half to have it painted. There’s a problem with the roof, and Sherrie thinks it’s becoming a deal breaker for interested parties. If I could do some minor repairs in that area as well…

It frustrates me, but not as much as this bizarrely deep line of questioning from Christian. The fact that he wants to know so much about me is something I can’t figure out. I like that he wants to know these things. I like that he sees me as a person and not a fuck toy. But why the sudden change in gears? Why via text?

After three weeks, my house hasn’t sold, but I’m done.

I don’t understand what he’s doing, and when I’ve tried to guide the conversation there, he avoids it.

It’s almost midnight on a Wednesday when I finally tell him that I can’t do it anymore.

I send the text with shaking fingers and a pounding heart.

I want the heat between us.

I want the sex.

I want the domination.

I don’t want endless text messages.

I can’t keep having this conversation

Immediately, a bubble pops up on my screen. He’s writing back.

My stomach turns over.

I can’t either. Open the front door

I stand up from the couch, throwing the blanket that rested over my legs over the arm of the chair, and pad across the silent apartment to the front door. Carolyn went to bed early, exhausted from putting in too many hours today at her boutique. She needs to hire some more help, if you ask me. She can afford it. There’s no reason to burn herself out.

I’m so tightly wound that my throat feels restricted.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

Christian stands in the hall, his hair damp from walking from his car to our building in the rain.

“Come in.” I incline my head, ushering him into the entryway. Then I close and lock the door behind him. “Let’s go to my room. Carolyn is sleeping.”

He nods, and follows me through the apartment and down the hallway to my bedroom. I shut the door softly behind us, then round on him.

“What the hell?” I say, my voice sounding more tired than pissed off. “What happened? One day we’re having sex that literally blows my mind, and the next you won’t even talk about it?”

He takes a deep breath. “I had to figure some things out.”

“Figure what out? What is it that we’re even doing here?”

“I wanted to know more about you.”

“And you couldn’t take me on a date and ask me then?”

“Listen.” He steps forward and takes my hand in his. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The tension stretches thin between us and my stomach plummets into my shoes. What is he about to admit to me? That he’s married? That he’s found a girlfriend?

“I want to be with you.”

I let out a laugh in spite of myself. “What?”

“I want to be with you, Quinn.”

“I wanted to be with you for the past three weeks. What about then?” I’m half giddy, half hurt.

“I don’t ever date women like you.”

“I gather that.”

“I never take women out on more than three dates.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s oddly specific. And bizarre.”

“I know it is.”

“So you didn’t want to…waste the dates with me? That’s why we’ve been sending messages by carrier pigeon?”

“That’s what happened.”

It hits me then: the look in his eyes, the way he’s standing, shoulders curved toward me, the nervousness on his face. He’s admitting to me the ridiculous reason why we haven’t been spending every night together for the past three weeks.

He’s vulnerable.

It sounds absurd, it sounds idiotic, but he’s putting his real reputation as a confident playboy on the line to explain himself to me. My heart bursts.

He would never show this side of himself to someone he didn’t trust.

I knew it. I knew it was more than sex.

Suddenly I’m grinning like an idiot, and all the weirdness of the past three weeks is forgiven.

“Are you done?” I say, unable to remove the smile from my face.

“Done with what?” he starts to smile, but doesn’t seem to want to risk giving himself away unless I’m done being angry.

“Done with your stupid rules?”

“Yes,” he nods, and I see it in his eyes—he’s telling me the truth. He had to work things out. This was his way of giving us the chance to get to know each other, without the incredible distraction of wanting to fuck each other’s brains out. I couldn’t see it until right now.

“Thank God that’s over,” I cry, and then I’m clinging to him in his arms, our bodies pressed together, and his mouth is on mine, hot and needy and dominating, and everything is right with the world.