The next few days are paradise.

I see Leighton every break at work.

Spend every night at her place.

Sunday, she finishes work early and laces up her running shoes. I can’t join her—I’m stuck finishing this sleeve—but I promise to work her hard after.

She begs for the mercy of my air conditioning.

I offer her my spare key.

Somehow, I manage to focus on work even with my client teasing me about my relationship with the hot purple-haired chick.

I manage to get to my car, drive home, park.

My thoughts turn dirty the second I step inside.

Leighton is sitting on my couch in nothing but a black towel.

Fuck. That’s a welcome home.

She tugs at the soft cotton. “You have to admit this is overboard.”

“What about it?”

She points to the black couch. The black dining table. The black coffee maker. The black frames.

“Should I get red frames?”

“Purple.”

“Buy them. I’ll put them up.”

“You’ll let me decorate your apartment?”

“You have good taste.”

Her dark lips—her makeup and hair are as perfect as always—press into a smile. “What if I adorn the walls in posters of hot rock stars?”

“Not gonna find anyone hotter than I am.”

Her smile widens. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” I kick the door closed. Click the lock. “You disagree?”

“No. Just glad you see it.” She reaches for something on the black coffee table—my spare key. She holds it up, offering it to me. “You need this back?”

“Keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” There aren’t many things I’m sure of. Leighton being in my life is a no-brainer.

“Okay.” She picks her pink, gem-stone shaped purse off the floor and carefully tucks the key into a hidden zipper.

“Where do you find that shit?”

“Shit?”

I motion to the shiny purse.

“I assume you mean amazing clothes and accessories.”

“Of course.”

“You really need to work on your sweet talk.”

“Where do you find that amazing shit?”

She laughs. “Internet. Where else?”

“You think I’m carefully cultivating my t-shirt collection?”

She stands and cinches the towel. “Of course.” Her teeth sink into her lip as she drops the towel. “You have to find just the right shade of black.”

I can’t help but chuckle.

She motions come here.

I do.

Her fingers curl into my belt loop. She tugs at my jeans, pulling my body against hers.

There’s only one layer between my skin and hers. I need to have her. Now.

“Your jeans always hug your ass just so.” Her fingers skim my stomach. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”

“And?”

“Your hair—nobody rolls out of bed with perfect waves.”

I can’t help but smile. “What if I do?”

“I’ll hate you forever.”

“You don’t already?”

She shakes her head. Tugs at my belt loop as she takes a step backward. “You can admit you try.”

“Can I?”

Her nod is heavy.

“Can I be honest with you, Leigh?”

She looks behind her to turn the hallway corner backward. “Of course.”

“Don’t have a fucking clue what we’re talking about.”

“Your jeans.”

I bring my hand to her ass and hold her body against mine.

She groans as my hard-on brushes her stomach. “You’re too good at this.”

“You complaining?”

“No.” She takes another step backward. Kicks the bedroom door open. “I just…” She steps into my bedroom. “I had this epic plan of winding you up and leaving you wanting.”

“Now?”

She shakes her head. “Take off your pants.”

“What if I like your plan?”

Her groan is agony.

“What if I want you on edge all fucking night?”

“Ryan—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“You’re evil.”

“I know.”

She slides her hand under my t-shirt. Presses her palm flat against my stomach. “You’re supposed to be desperate.”

“I am.”

“But you’re so—” She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide with lust. “In control.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”

Her purple hair falls in front of her eyes as she shakes her head.

“That a yes or a no?”

She backs herself onto my bed. “I fucking love it.” Her lips press together. She lies on her side, draping herself over my black sheets as she pats the spot next to her.

She looks like a centerfold.

She’s fucking perfect.

But this is all wrong.

This is so fucking wrong.

There hasn’t been a naked woman in my bed since—

Fuck.

My head fills with that awful mental image. Penny under Frank. His name rolling off her lips. Her nails digging into his back. Her honey eyes filling with relief.

I can’t fuck Leighton in my bed.

I can’t even fuck myself in my bed.

Leighton pulls the sheets against her chest. The same way Penny did.

The same fucking—

“Ryan?” Her voice gets soft.

“I can’t. Not here.”

“Oh.” Her blue-green eyes turn down. Her lips press together. “Did I do something?”

“No, Leigh. It’s me.”

“I thought you were over…” Her voice trails to a whisper. Her brow furrows. She can’t bear to finish her sentence. She can’t bear my bullshit.

“Me too.”

“So you’re still…”

I nod to the hallway. “Let’s go to the couch.”

She shakes her head. “No, uh… I… I’m gonna get dressed.” She stares into my eyes.

She’s asking for something.

But I don’t have a fucking clue what it is.

She must not find it, because she looks away with a frown.

Slowly, she slides off the bed, pulls the mirrored closet door open, and dives into the top drawer of the black dresser—her drawer.

“Could you give me a minute?” She hugs the black sheets to her chest.

“It’s not you, Leigh.”

“I believe you.”

But she doesn’t. It’s written all over her face.

“It’s just not… I don’t want to think about her either.” She swallows hard. “It’s okay. Really. I’m starving anyway.”

“I’ll make you something.”

“No.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I should probably—”

“Stay.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get street tacos.”

Her voice perks. “Yeah?”

“Your pick. You can school me on how to make them.”

“You didn’t add any cilantro last time.”

“I’m a monster.”

She nods, but there’s no enthusiasm in it.

She’s pulling away.

I can’t let that happen.

I need to fix this.

But that means fixing my head.

And I don’t have a fucking clue how to do that.