At some point between pulling my boxers and shirt back on and storming out of my bedroom to see who the fuck has interrupted us, Jamie quietly gets dressed. I’m still yelling at Victoria, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when Jamie comes down the steps. She pauses in the foyer, her lips still swollen from my kisses and her skin flushed from what was supposed to be round one of an incredible evening.

“Don’t fucking move an inch,” I warn, and her bottom lip trembles as she lifts her chin. Victoria takes a tentative step in her direction, staring at Jamie with oversized eyes, and I point my finger at her. “And you, don’t say a goddamn word.”

Jamie flicks her dark eyes between Victoria and me, gives me an accusing stare that rips my breath out of my lungs, then shakes her head. “I’m sure she won’t be. I’ll just leave you to it.”

“Jamila,” I start, but she ducks out the front door, slamming the door so hard Victoria jumps.

Fisting my hands, I fight for air as Victoria walks numbly across the foyer. She opens the door, her shoulders shaking when she turns to me a moment later. “Why didn’t you let me say anything to her?” she demands. “You could have at least let me explain that—”

“Explain what the fuck you’re doing here? Because I’d sure as hell like to know too.” I drag a hand over my face, releasing a sound from the back of my throat that singes my ears. “Victoria. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

She crosses her thin arms over her chest. Keeping her gaze squared with mine, she creeps from the foyer and sits on the edge of the white leather sofa. “Did you really forget, B?” When I simply stare at her, shooting acid with my eyes, she sighs. “I asked you if I could stay here when you were in Los Angeles. The night I came to your hotel with Meghan. You nodded and…” She looks helplessly from my expression to the front door and presses her hand to her mouth. “And you weren’t even paying attention. My God, B. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think. I knew where the key was and when you didn’t answer my call, I—”

I hold up my hand, stopping her. “No, this is my fault.” I bite my tongue, feeling a tight pressure in the pit of my stomach that shouldn't be there. How many times has a woman stormed out on me? How many times have I pissed off a woman so badly they wanted nothing more to do with me? Too many to count, but they’re not her. I leave Victoria sitting in stunned silence, and when I race back down fully clothed a few minutes later, she stands up.

“You’re going after her,” she says. It’s not a question but a statement, and the muscles in my shoulders tense.

“Well she’s not answering my fucking calls, so yes.” I’d called Jamie three times as I got dressed, and all three calls went straight to voicemail. “I think that it might be a good idea—”

“I’ve already made reservations to stay at a hotel, but I wanted to check on you before I left. I am so sorry, Mateo.” When I mutter something as I search for my keys, she flinches. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

I shake my head, so she repeats herself. “You are in love with that woman.” She emphasizes each word, banging a nail into my chest with every syllable. I don’t love. I haven’t since Delfina, and I have no plans to. I don’t love Jamila Armstrong because doing so would ruin us both.

“I’m not,” I tell Victoria roughly, closing my fingers around my car keys. “But I’m not going to let her leave without making sure she knows exactly what’s going on.”

She swallows hard. Tucks a strand of blond hair behind one ear. “You’re right. You’re not in love. Tell her … tell her that I’m sorry. That I had no idea she was here and that you and I are nothing.”

My gaze shoots behind where she’s standing—to the leftover cake and unopened gift still waiting on my kitchen counter—and a muscle in my jaw tics. “I will.”

As I head to my car, I text her that I’m on my way to her place. I call her as I peel out of the driveway and this time, she answers on the first ring. “Save it, Mateo,” she sighs.

“I'm not saving shit. I told her she could spend the weekend at my place when I saw her in L.A., and—” At her sharp inhale, I realize my mistake, and I want to punch myself in the balls. I’m fucking up at every turn today. “Jamila,” I say in a low voice. “I can swear to God that I have never touched Victoria.”

“Since the photo you mean?” she snaps. I hear a dinging sound and then her car door slams. “You haven’t touched Victoria since the photo.”

I briefly release the steering wheel to pinch the bridge of my nose. “That picture isn’t what you think it is.” I had touched Victoria that night after I made a teasing comment about the tattoo she had gotten removed—the one of her ex’s name under her breast. The fact Lucy Williams had chosen that exact moment to play photographer is still ruining my life, months later. “There is nothing between Victoria and me.”

“Okay,” she says. “But I'm still going home, and I don't want you to follow me. My parents are staying at my place tonight before they take off for Connecticut tomorrow morning, and I don't want or need the drama of you showing up unannounced. You don’t get to show up, do you understand? You don’t get to come making demands of me, making me feel things that…”

A fist punches at the walls of my chest, and I grip the steering wheel, waiting for her next words. They come out on a soft breath, angry and defeated. “I guess what I'm asking is for you just to let me enjoy the rest of my birthday without another letdown, Mateo. Can you do that?”

“I don't want to stay away from you.”

“Then find something else to distract yourself. You were just preaching how birthdays are so special,” she grinds out through her teeth. “Let me breathe on mine.”

She hangs up then. I drive another mile and a half up the road until I finally make a U-turn and go home.

* * *

She ignores me for the next few days. I call, and she sends me straight to voicemail. I send her flowers, but she doesn’t acknowledge receiving them. I’m furious. At myself for getting into this situation and at her for not having the goddamn courtesy to give me a chance to explain.

I have a late dinner meeting with Arrow Kendall—one of my clients—on Thursday night, and I barely hear what the douche is saying because I keep checking Jamie’s Instagram feed. She’s out tonight, at some club, and I can’t deny the fury boiling my blood as she’s tagged in yet another picture with a group of her friends. She’s dressed to kill—and Jesus, looking at her kills me—in a form-fitting yellow strapless number and lace-up heels. She’s straightened her hair, and my fingers itch to run through it as she says my name.

“Who’s that?” Arrow demands, craning his neck to look at my phone. When he sees the picture of Jamie and a friend clinking their glasses together, he nods his bleached blond head appreciatively and lets out a low wolf whistle. “Damnnnn, they’re both hot. Which one do you think would be—”

“You’re what? Sixteen?”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m twenty.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I jerk my hand toward the proposal on the table. “So how about we get back to discussing your winter tour instead of who’s DTF tonight, huh?” Because if he makes a comment about Jamie, I’ll be tempted to punch him right in the center of those tight skinny jeans that make his army of vapid “Arrowheads” swoon and attack his critics on Twitter.

“Man, I thought you were supposed to be cool,” Arrow whines, and I shoot him a venomous glare. When I remind him that he can spend his evening however the hell he wants once we’re done and he’s with his entourage, he blows out a breath and gives me a roll of his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Just tell me what I need to do.”

Although he doesn’t give me any more shit as we go over the details of his upcoming tour—and we discuss how we’re going to handle his latest run-in with the paparazzi—I still have a splitting headache by the time we part ways. He leaves the restaurant with his bodyguards, loudly talking about all the pussy he plans to smash tonight, and I shake my head. “Stupid little shit,” I mutter.

Walking to my car, I check Jamie’s Instagram again, feeling like a certified stalker. She hasn’t posted or been tagged in any new photos, but the pressure in my skull spikes when I see that Julian Noble’s left a comment on one of her pictures. “Stunning as always, but you look a little lonely,” I read aloud as I crank my car. She hasn’t responded, and I doubt she will, but the winking emoji at the end of his comment leaves a red haze over my vision during the drive home.

“You look a little lonely,” I growl as I let myself into my empty house. I spot her unopened birthday gift on the console table and clench my hands. She wouldn’t be lonely at all if she’d just pick up her phone and stop playing this ridiculous game.

I text her twice—once before I shower and again as I climb into bed alone. She should be with me and not out in a slinky yellow dress with my goddamn accountant pointing out how beautiful she is. She should be with me tonight, period. When my phone buzzes and I look at the screen to see that she’s sent me a series of question marks in response to my text, I call her.

This time, she answers.

I release an angry breath. “Christ, I’ve missed you.” I have. I’ve missed Jamila Armstrong and she’s blown me off like she couldn’t give a fuck less. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought of you? How many times I’ve tried to get in touch with you?”

“A call before I go to bed, Mr. Bailon,” she whispers. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to her in several days, and my muscles go rigid at the sound of her voice—soft and hesitant. Too sweet. I fucking can’t stand her for that. For what she’s done to me since the day I laid eyes on her. “That’s kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

She hiccups and the scowl that drags at my features pisses me off even more than her voice’s effect on my dick. “Are you drunk, Jamila?” I demand.

“Don’t call me that.”

“That’s your name. Right now, I prefer it over Jamie. Now answer the goddamn question.” I hear a male voice in the background, and I automatically reach for my keys on the nightstand because an image of her and Julian shoves its way into my thoughts. I grind my teeth for control. “Are you with someone?”

“Yes,” she drawls, and she’s silent for a long pause, giving the darkness plenty of time to swirl around me. “It’s called Uber. I’m getting out of it. Were you with someone tonight?”

“I was working.”

“Riiight.” She hiccups again, and I hear an elevator ding. “What the hell do you want, Bailon?”

She’s drunk. She’s fucking drunk. I swing my legs over the side of my bed in search of shoes. I want to get to her. Want to strip her down and bend her over my knee for making me worry. For making me fucking care. Fuck Jamie. Fuck relationships. Fuck monogamy. Fuck—

She sighs. I melt like a fool.

If I let her, the woman will be my second undoing.

“I want you.”

She lets out a strangled noise and breathes heavily into the receiver for a moment. I hear a door slam and then the sound of locks snapping into place. “Look, Mateo, I should go to bed because I’m sleepy and—”

“I’m on my way to your place,” I growl. “And you’ll be in bed, but you’re not sleeping. Don’t think for a second I’m letting your ass off that easy. You’re going to listen to everything I have to say, do you understand?”

She hangs up on me, and I stalk out to my car.