I felt Kit’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze trained on my feet as I stepped through the door and into Kit’s apartment. I hated to cry. Especially in front of other people. I was stronger than that. I’d taken care of myself for years now.

But the tears kept coming. Fat. Hot. Relentless.

I felt terrible about what happened. Of course I hadn’t meant to pull away from Kit in front of the cameras. I’d been fine with him touching me on the dance floor. I was fine with dance floor touching, period. That kind of contact was impersonal and shamelessly sexual. It meant nothing, and led to nothing except some making out and/or—if I got lucky—a solid hook up.

I thought I could slowly begin to tolerate Kit’s relationship-y touching, too. I’d let him put a hand on the small of my back when he introduced me to his friends. I’d helped him with his hair, although that hadn’t bothered me all that much. We’d touched a lot when we were dancing.

Then Kit reaches for my hand, interlocking his fingers with mine the way Luke used to do, and it was like a bomb went off inside me. The memories it dug up, the reminder of everything I’d lost—

It had been too much. So I pulled away out of panic. Out of shame and embarrassment.

And now we were in deep shit. I heard the fear, the frustration, too, in Kit’s voice on the calls he’d made.

I climbed the stairs, one steadying hand on the railing. Kit was a step behind me. I got the feeling he intentionally kept close, like he was waiting for me to explain myself.

Which was the last thing I felt like doing. Yes, I absolutely owed him an explanation. I’d likely just torpedoed our little effort to save his sister. He had as much on the line as I did—more, even. But the thought of spilling my guts to the Ice Prince made me feel like dying.

Kit didn’t do vulnerability. Neither did I.

Although the way he’d looked at me on the dance floor…call me crazy, but I almost thought he wanted to kiss me. Not for show, but for real. Which was ridiculous, of course. The contract had made clear Kit had no interest in kissing me like that.

I kept climbing the stairs. My legs felt heavy. So did the silence between us.

Damn it.

I gripped the railing and stopped. I could hear Kit breathing right behind me, short, angry inhales and exhales.

My gaze still on my feet, I said, “I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence stretched between us.

“I’m sorry you feel so out of sorts. But I need to know what’s going on with you, Emily. If you can’t do this…”

I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. “I can. Or I thought I could.” I scoffed. “A fake relationship sounded right up my alley.”

More silence. It was unbearable.

“Why?” he said. His voice was soft, and my heart seemed to go soft with it. “Because a real relationship isn’t?”

I looked at him. My pulse skipped at the exhaustion I saw written so clearly on his face. The concern. God, where was the Ice Prince when I needed him? He wouldn’t be interested in why I’d behaved the way I did.

“Emily.” He moved onto my step, sliding his hands into his pockets. “What is going on?”

My eyes welled with tears. “It’s kind of a long story, and it’s late…you look tired…”

“I’m fine.” He held up his forearm. “Here, use my sleeve.”

“Your sleeve?” I started at his sudden show of kindness. I peered at the fine, almost silky fabric of his blazer; when he moved, a sliver of his blue button down appeared at the cuff. “But I’m all snotty. And my makeup—”

“I don’t care.” He looked at me. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole closet of these things. And this is my least favorite out of all of them.”

I laughed. Look at him, making me feel better already. Who knew he had it in him?

He reached up and brushed my hair out of my face. My breath caught in my throat.

“I’ve got two brothers who are eternal adolescents living next-door,” he said. “I am an expert in cleaning up bodily fluids.”

I gathered the edge of his sleeve in my fingers and ducked down, using it to mop up the mess of tears underneath my eyes. The blazer smelled like him—like boy, just a hint of something lemony and clean. The lump in my throat loosened.

I didn’t want to trust Kit with the truth. But I had to.

“Thank you,” I said. Putting a hand back on the railing, I sunk down onto the step. My feet were killing me. These booties were cute, but holy God did they hurt. For some reason, I thought Kit might be less intimidating, or maybe less handsome, if he were sitting, too. I patted the tread beside me. “Here, sit down.”

Kit’s weary gaze lingered on me for a beat.

“Give me a moment,” he said at last.

He turned and made his way back down the steps, disappearing down the hall. A minute later he returned, a fifth of brown liquor in one hand and a box of tissues in another.

Kit was exhausted, and angry, but he still took the time to be kind. The lump in my throat returned with a vengeance.

He sat down on the step, placing the tissues between us. I held up the bottle he put in my lap. “Bourbon?”

“You said at Jacob’s Club that you liked it. Besides, I hear it does wonders for clearing up snot.”

I unscrewed the cap and took a quick swig. It was good bourbon, fiery and sweet. Just what I needed.

Expectant silence filled the space between us.

“So you know I’m divorced,” I said, passing him the bottle. “As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m still a little scarred from the whole thing.”

He tipped it back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The sound of his stubble scraping against his skin filled the space between us.

“Still scarred? Em, I can’t touch your hand without you jumping ten feet in the air. Although you did let me touch you when we were dancing. A lot.”

I laughed, letting out a breath. “It’s crazy, I know. I’m totally fine with that kind of stuff because it’s not personal. But hand holding…that is. It’s as personal and lovey-dovey as it gets.”

“I’d agree with that,” Kit said, nodding. He held out the bottle.

“Anyway.” I took it and sipped. I winced; that one hurt. “Luke and I split up about two years ago. We had these, like, big plans to take over the world together. He’d always dreamed of running for public office, and a couple years ago, he finally got the chance—a state Senate seat was up for grabs in Georgia. So he hired a campaign manager.”

I passed the bottle back to Kit. He set it on the tread between us. He didn’t interrupt; didn’t ask questions. He just listened, patiently. Quietly.

He was a good listener. I liked that about him.

“I was a big part of Luke’s platform. You know, the ambitious partner who also happens to be a small business owner. But because I was so busy actually running my business, I ended up missing a lot of the campaign. That year was a doozy for EP Designs. I got my first project in the UK, and I was constantly flying back and forth between Atlanta and London. I lived in a permanent state of jet lag.”

I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took a healthy pull. I hated this part of the story.

“I knew Luke and I had grown apart. I mean, we’d been married close to six years at that point. I tried to fix it, tried to connect with him when I was home. But we were both so wrapped up in our careers…” I shrugged. “It was hard. Luke’s campaign wasn’t going well, and I know he blamed me. Probably part of the reason why he wanted to sabotage my business.” My voice thinned. “So I come home from the airport one day, and I find him in bed with Miss Georgia.”

Kit furrowed his brow. “Who’s Miss Georgia?”

“A beauty queen.”

“Literally?”

“Literally.” I laughed, a mirthless sound. “Luke didn’t even apologize. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I walked in on them. It was like he wanted me to catch them in the act. He wanted to hurt me as much as possible. Said it wasn’t his fault it happened—he couldn’t be married to me anymore because I was already married to my job. So he left me.”

Kit ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Em. That’s awful. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I swallowed. “They were holding hands—Luke and Miss Georgia. Just like Luke used to hold hands with me. Seeing him touch her like that sent me reeling, even more than the sex.”

Kit took a sharp inhale. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “And it made you wonder if the connection the two of you had was ever really…real. If it was ever there in the first place.”

“Exactly. Like, if he was touching this random girl the way he touched me…was he faking that connection the whole time we were together? What else was he faking? Everything?” I shook my head again. “I’ve had a hard time trusting myself after that. Trusting other people, yes. But the fact that I was so blind to what was going on—over and over again I’ve had to weigh what was real and what was fake. And I still don’t have the answers.”

It was Kit’s turn to shake his head.

“What did you call him? A knob head?”

He laughed, even as something sharp moved across his eyes. This was the first time either of us had mentioned the office incident. Did it bother him?

“Yes,” he said. “I believe that is the term I used to describe the boyfriend who’d cheated on you. Twat was another one.”

“Twat. That’s right. Still so perfect for Luke. Especially when you consider he and Miss Georgia got married a year to the day after we filed for separation. They live one mile from my condo, and they’re expecting their first baby this spring. I run into them all the goddamned time. As much as I hate to admit it, it kills me.”

Was I imagining it, or did Kit’s fingers just tighten around the bottle?

“Even I need a drink after hearing that. Brutal, Em. Absolutely brutal.” He took a long pull. Looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Have you dated anyone else?”

“Not really.” I reached for another tissue. Kit beat me to it; he set down the bourbon and held up the tissue box. “I guess the divorce fucked me up pretty bad. Worse than it fucked up Luke, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think it didn’t fuck him up at all.”

Kit set the box down. “Well. I’d gladly fuck him up for you if you’d like.”

“Really? Could you sic James Bond on him?”

It was Kit’s turn to grin. “Of course—James and I go way back. Tell me, which Bond would you prefer?”

“Hm.” I tapped a finger to my chin, pretending to mull it over. “Either the Daniel Craig Bond or the Sean Connery Bond. Can’t decide.”

“Right then.” Kit nodded, teasing. “Roger Moore Bond it is. He’s my favorite.”

Kit put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. The muscles in his back strained against his blazer. A pulse of awareness broke through the heaviness in my chest.

I looked away.

“So you can’t hold hands because it’s personal, and getting personal reminds you of him and how shitty he treated you? How you can’t trust yourself?” Kit asked.

I drew a sharp breath. That wasn’t it. Not exactly. But how did I explain to Kit that Luke taught me one very important—and very painful—lesson: that I couldn’t have it all, and I was an idiot to ever believe I could?

I’d tried to juggle Emily Pace Designs and my relationship with Luke. I’d tried having a healthy work-life balance. But I’d failed.

I’d failed miserably. In my rational mind, I knew our divorce wasn’t entirely my fault. But deep down, part of me believed it was.

And if I couldn’t have it all, it was stupid to let good guys get close enough to start liking them. Because when push came to shove, I’d choose my career over them. They’d choose a girl who wasn’t quite so ambitious over me. In the end, I’d just be setting myself up for more heartbreak.

I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go through that again.

I wiped my eyes with the tissue. It was stained black from my mascara and eyeliner. Great. My eyes probably looked like two burn holes in a sheet.

“Something like that,” I said. “I can’t do relationship-type stuff because of everything that went down with Luke. But I also just don’t do relationships, period. I don’t ever let guys touch me like that. It makes me uncomfortable.”

Kit’s eyes were painfully earnest and kind when they met mine. “So how can I make it more comfortable for you?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” I scoffed, my shoulders sagging. “Maybe I need touching lessons or something.”

He cocked a brow. “Touching lessons?”

“Yeah.” I scoffed again. “You know. We could condition me to not to freak out by having you touch me. Or something.”

Kit lifted his eyebrows. Oh, God, he thought I was being serious.

I wasn’t. But maybe…

I mean. We couldn’t go on like this. I had to learn how to hold Kit’s hand without wanting to die.

It wasn’t a great plan. But it was all I could come up with. We didn’t have time for anything else.

I looked at him. “Would you be up for that? Doing a…touching lesson with me?”

Kit looked at me. His eyes were serious, but they weren’t icy, either.

“Well. We’ve got to do something, haven’t we?” he replied.

My stomach flipped. Wow. I had no idea how it would work. If it would work. The thought of Kit holding me, of him kissing me, even if it was fake holding and fake kissing, made my heart race. And not in a good way.

But I had to try if I wanted to get EP Designs back.

I grabbed the bourbon and took one last pull. We were announcing our engagement in the morning. Probably a good idea to get this touching lesson in before that.

“All right,” I said. “Tomorrow, before the announcement—want to have some coffee and try it?”

Kit took the bourbon out of my hand. “Eight too early?”

I shook my head. “The hairdresser is coming at six-thirty. I’ll be ready.”

“Good,” he said, and tipped back the bottle.

I swallowed. “Please—please don’t say anything about…well. Everything I just told you.”

“Of course not.” Kit said it like he was offended I’d ever think otherwise. “I get why you don’t trust men. You’ve got every reason not to. But you can trust me, all right?”

I didn’t answer him.

“I’ll prove it to you, Emily. Any way that I can.”

He held my gaze for a beat too long. I felt the tug between our bodies then. The same magnetic tug I’d felt when were dancing. The shape of him—the way he smelled, the way he smiled—everything about him spoke to me.

Get up. I had to get up. Go to bed. Do something before I gave in.

I couldn’t give in. If I was going to hold Kit’s hand, I couldn’t fuck him, too. I knew all to well where that led. It led to falling in love. Love made me stupid. Love made me lose.

Kit was hot. Handsome. Smart. There’d be no halfway with him. One toe in the water, and I’d be in over my head. I’d been in over my head once before, with Luke. He’d taken my life away from me. Kit was giving me a chance to get it back. I would not fuck that up.

But my desire to touch Kit right then was so big it nearly knocked the wind out of me. He had some balls on him, being kind like this. Being adorable. Giving me exactly the kind of bourbon I liked at exactly the moment I needed it.

He was so wonderful it hurt.

“We’ll see,” I said. I stood, brushed off my jeans. “Thanks for listening. Sorry again about everything. Good night, Kit.”

I turned and made my way up the stairs. If I had to choose between being rude and being smart, I’d pick smart all day long.

But when he called “Good night, Emily,” after me, my heart still skipped a beat.