I can’t believe he’s standing in my doorway. My heart turns over, clenches, then explodes within my chest, pieces hurtling toward my rib cage.

What is he doing here?

“Jett.” I don’t have any other words. To say his name, to acknowledge that he’s here, is almost too much as it is. I can’t even breathe.

“Can we talk?” He doesn’t waste any time. He knows what he wants.

Do I?

My mind reels. Cook’s office. His anger. The look of sheer betrayal on his face.

When we leave here, I want you to understand something. We’re over.

We’re over.

We’re over.

We’re over.

So why does he want to talk to me?

Even though he does, it doesn’t change what I’ve done.

No. I can’t do this to him.

I can’t do this to me.

“No,” I say, and I close the door.

I don’t slam it. I close it gently, and then I turn around and lean up against it, my back against the smooth metal surface.

There’s a silence.

My entire body strains to hear what’s happening outside the door. I wait for the footsteps to retreat, for the ding of the elevator, for the inevitable stillness of Jett walking back out of my life forever.

Instead, there’s a gentle knock at the door, somewhere near my left shoulder.

“Angelica, let me in.” His voice is smooth, so smooth, and I want to obey him. I want to open the door, but if I open the door I’ll be setting us both up for more heartache. How could he ever trust me again? I would never trust me again. I’ll be a constant reminder that he always needs to be wary.

I clear my throat. “No.”

“Why not?”

I blink a couple of times to clear away the tears that have started to form at the sight of him. “We shouldn’t talk, Jett. We should leave each other be.”

Another pause. A rustle of fabric as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Is that what you want?”

The lump comes to my throat so fast and so painful I almost can’t swallow past it. “No.”

“Then let me in.”

“This isn’t...this isn’t good for you, Jett.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Let me in.”

I haven’t locked the door. If he wanted to, he could force his way inside. He’s strong enough, but he hasn’t. He’s letting me choose. He’s ceding me control. My heart bursts again.

I turn around, slowly, deliberately, and reach a shaking hand toward the doorknob.

In the instant before I open the door, I’m seized with the certainty that the hallway will be empty, that my delay will have been long enough to convince him that I’m not worth the effort, and he’ll have gone.

So I jerk the door open and stand there, breathing hard, taking him in.

He’s wearing dress pants and a pale blue shirt, the sleeves carefully rolled up to his elbows. All of it is tailored to the lines of his body. My mouth waters. Even now I want him so much that it hurts. I want him so much it clouds my judgment. I want to reach out and undo those buttons so I can see the hard lines of his abs—

“Can I come in?” There’s a strange light in his eyes, like he could laugh, only this moment is so deadly serious.

“Yes. Sure.” I step back, holding the door open for him, and he comes in, bringing along a breeze of his scent with him, clean, spicy, a hint of cologne, and I want to bury my face in the side of his neck, gently bite down on his shoulder with my teeth.

Jett goes to the center of the living room. “Nice place.”

That was supposed to have flooded. The memory of the lie brings heat to my cheeks. “Thanks.”

“Do you have a roommate?” He glances at the two doorways on opposite ends of the living rooms. Two bedrooms.

“Yeah. Her name is Sarah. She’s away on a business trip.”

He nods, and his shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

I stand rooted to the spot in the hallway in front of the door. It’s so strange seeing him here, in my apartment. We’ve only ever been to his places.

Unsurprisingly, he’s as much at home here as he was anywhere else we went. Jett Brandon owns any room he walks into, every single time.

“Mind if I sit down?”

The only thing that’s different is this attitude of deference. It hasn’t completely taken over—he had no problem telling me to open the door—but he’s being careful, like we’re on equal footing, even though we’re not.

“Not at all.”

He takes a seat on the couch and leans back against the cushions. It’s nothing like the furniture he has in his place, but I’ve never had any complaints about it.

Jett pats the cushion next to him. “Why don’t you join me, Angelica?”

For a moment I don’t think I can make the walk across the room to him, but then I take the first step and my body cooperates again. I don’t sit right next to him, though—I sit against the opposite arm, my back braced, my muscles tensed for a fight.

“So,” I say, my voice too loud, too strained. “What—what can I do for you?”

He gives me a half-smile that makes my insides go warm and melty. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, his expression turning more somber. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened.”

I look away, toward my bedroom. “No discussion needed. What I did was completely unforgivable.”

He takes a breath in, then lets it out slowly. “Do you really believe that?”

“I think you really believe that. I would believe that, if I were you.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I’m being obtuse and I can’t help myself.

“I don’t think it’s unforgivable.”