XAVIER FOX

Friday morning, Savannah McClintock finally chooses an apartment. And Friday afternoon, I’m celebrating with a drink at the sports bar down the street from my place.

I should call Magnolia back.

I know that.

But, damn if she doesn’t make me want to say and do stupid things.

I’m not putting myself out there again. It was hard enough to look someone in the eye who hates me and declare that I still love them. It takes a lot of courage to look that pathetic and walk away with straight shoulders and a steady gait.

My thumb hovers over my phone, itching to call her. She’s probably spent the last couple of days cursing my name, her disdain for me only compounding with every quiet hour that ticked by.

I pay my tab and head out for some fresh air, knowing full well that I could debate this with myself for the next several hours, thus ruining a perfectly fine Friday night, or I could man up and call her back.

Screw it.

I pull her up, press the call button, and bring the phone to my ear. Three and a half rings later, she answers.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s Xavier.”

“I know.”

Touché.

“Sorry.” I blow a breath past my lips. “This week got away from me. I’ve been working with a new client, and she’s got narrow standards and a generous budget, so we’ve been looking at pretty much everything.”

“Xavier. It’s fine.” The curtness in her words leads me to believe otherwise.

“Anyway, what’d you need?” I’m setting the tone, and it’s fucking friendly and cordial. I’m not doing this angsty, dramatic bullshit anymore. Either she wants me in her life or she doesn’t.

And if she doesn’t, then I’ll figure out a way to move on, because I don’t have any other option.

“I just wanted to maybe get together with you. Sit down. Talk.” Her voice cuts out just before she clears her throat. I can just picture her tracing her fingers over the nervous blotches forming on her neck. “I have some questions.”

“Fair enough. What are you doing right now?”

“I-I’m at home. I’m probably going out later, but for now, I’m here.”

“Same place?”

“Yes.”

* * *

“You want a drink?”

I’m standing in Magnolia’s kitchen for the first time in years. Nothing about her condo has changed. It’s still a vision of whites and creams. Spotless from floor to ceiling. A vase of pink roses centers the island, partially obstructing my view of her.

“I’m good.”

She turns and pulls out a bottle of Grey Goose, a sliced lime, a container of dipping sugar for the rim, and a can of cranberry juice. Magnolia never could just have a simple cocktail. “Suit yourself.”

“It’s not like you to be nervous around me.”

“Who said I was nervous?”

I scoff. “If you need a drink to be able to talk to me—”

“I don’t need it. I want it. Big difference.”

I ignore the hostility in her tone. It’s her defense mechanism.

“My mistake.” I raise my hands in protest.

She nods toward her sofa, and we each take a seat on the respective ends. A wide cushion and a couple of throw pillows separate us, but it may as well be an ocean. Everything about her, from her rigid posture to her arctic stare, tells me she’s got her mind tuned to resistance.

She takes a sip of her cocktail, her eyes finding mine. Locking. Another sip. Then another. “Okay.”

I mirror her position, lifting my brows and waiting.

“So,” she says, placing her drink on the coaster of her coffee table. It’s the same Sunday morning flea market find I helped carry back here for her way back when. “What you said the morning after we . . .”

Her chin tucks. She can’t finish.

“The morning after we what?”

“Tallahassee.” Her dark eyes roll. “I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time saying this.”

“God, you’re acting traumatized. We made love.” I say it with conviction.

Her head tilts, as if she disagrees with the way I’ve just categorized that night. “Right. After . . . that.”

“Okay, what happened the morning after?” I scratch the side of my head. “You showered. I went down for breakfast. You stopped talking to me after that.”

“I heard everything.” She reaches for her drink.

I’m still confused. “Magnolia, what the hell are you talking about?”

“The conversation you had with Tony, Matthias, and Shawn. At breakfast. The things you said about me . . .” Her bottom lip quivers for a millisecond before she turns away. She’s not going to cry. Magnolia Grantham doesn’t cry. She fights the hell out of it until it goes away. This might be the closest I’ve ever come to seeing her shed a tear. “Those horrible things . . .”

That morning is foggy in my memory. We’d had a little too much fun the night before and barely slept.

My face pinches as I struggle to remember what the hell I might have said back then. “Magnolia, I’m sorry, but I really can’t remember anything.”

“You said I was pathetic. Clingy. Needy. That I’d loved you for years, and you were only doing me a favor by sleeping with me.” She speaks through clenched teeth, gripping the stem of her martini glass with a shaky hand. “Which contradicted everything you told me the night before. About loving me. Wanting me. You broke down my walls, and then you changed your tune the second I was out of sight.”

Son of a bitch.

Bits and pieces begin to come together as she jogs my memory. I hang my head in my hands, resting my elbows on my knees. No fucking wonder she hates me.

“Magnolia.” I lift my gaze to hers, reaching for her hand. She jerks it away. Fair enough. “You didn’t hear the first half of that conversation.”

Her back straightens.

“Tony Valotti,” I say. “He’d been telling everyone all week that he was going to hook up with you the final night of the conference. You’d even told me he was hitting on you all week, making you uncomfortable. The guys had a bet going, saying Tony couldn’t get you in bed. All I wanted was to take the focus off you. Make you seem less appealing. So I told them horrible things about you. I stole his glory. I got to you before he could, and I took what was mine because God damn it, Magnolia, you were mine.”

Her face softens, though her eyes still burn into me. She’s hesitant to believe a word I say. I get that, but I would never lie to her.

“The thought of any of those pricks touching you, having their way with you.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t let it happen. I meant everything I said to you that night. All of it. I’d been keeping my feelings to myself for years, and when I heard about the bet, I realized I had to act quickly. I didn’t want to lose you, and I didn’t want to see you get hurt. I just didn’t think that by saving you from them, I’d end up hurting you in the process.”

She draws herself in, crossing her legs and hugging her sides. She’s protecting herself, but there’s no need.

“I wish you would’ve come to me.” The room is hot, suffocating. I pull in a sharp breath as my shirt collar tightens around my neck. I expected to feel a lot of things coming here tonight, but an intense, burning anger wasn’t one of them.

The last couple of years . . .

Living in a bubble of confusion and missing her so much I couldn’t function half the time.

All of it was over a fucking misunderstanding.

She says nothing. I don’t get an explanation or an apology. Something, anything, would be nice.

I rise, and her gaze snaps to me.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

I’m caught between wanting to smash her lips with an unrelenting kiss and wanting to storm out of here.

“I knew you were stubborn and a little self-righteous, Magnolia, but this fucking takes the cake.”

With that, I’m gone.

No clue where I’m going.

But I can’t stay there.

Not right now.