Page 134 of The Romance Line

“Can I go upstairs with?—”

“I need some space tonight. Please just let me have some space tonight.”

My heart caves in, but the woman asked loud and clear for one thing—some space tonight.

And I have to be the kind of man who listens. “Okay,” I say heavily.

Then she walks up the steps and opens the door, and I watch her go. My heart’s been punched.

By my own stupid fist.

48

MY NEW BED

Max

I don’t leave right away. I stare at her window on the second floor, debating.

I should go back in, right? Knock on her door and grovel on my knees.

I should buy flowers and chocolate and cake and lattes and bring them all upstairs and sayI fucked up big time.

But her last words are on replay.Please just let me have some space tonight.

I hate doing this. Truly, I do, but I’ve got to listen to the woman, and she needs tonotsee me.

I don’t get out of the car and barrel inside like I did when I crashed her dates. I drop my head on the steering wheel. How can I fix this? How can I convince her I’m worthy of all her chances? But a few minutes later, I’m no closer to an answer than I was before.

I turn on the car and go. No clue where I’m headed. Noway can I sleep. I just drive through Russian Hill, passing…wait.

Is that her pole studio? I hang a U-turn so fast, jerking the car to the curb. It’s late and the studio is closed, but I bound up the steps to the door of Upside Down, like I can find a clue there to fix this mess I’ve made with my own stupid trust issues.

Maybe I could buy her a lifetime supply of pole classes? Would that help her see I’m all in? I google the name of the studio to find the contact info, then send a quick email to the owner as I head back down the steps.

But it’s not like I’m going to hear from the owner overnight, so once I’m back in my car, I do the next logical thing. I call my dad. “I need your help. I fucked up big time.”

“Come on over, kid,” he says.

I leave the city behind.

Dad grabs a bag from the pantry and tugs it open, offering me some of the Himalayan salt air-popped popcorn. “Your favorite.”

I shake my head as I slump down into a chair at the kitchen table. “I don’t deserve it.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I doubt that, but what’s going on?” He pops a handful of kernels into his mouth. He’s in plaid pajama pants and a sweatshirt. His hair is sticking up. He was probably asleep, but he got out of bed for me.

I blow out a breath. “I kind of have trust issues,” I begin.

“You do.”

I drag a hand through my hair. “And I sort of freaked out tonight, and thought maybe Everly didn’t really mean the things she’d said about her feelings for me. What would come next in our relationship.”

He winces, like he can’t believe I did that. Yeah, I can’t either. I tell him the awful story of where my mind went at dinner, and then what I said to her after. “What do I do now? How do I convince her I’m not?—”

“A dick?”

“Yes, Jesus. I’ve just spent nearly two months convincing the public I’m not, and in one dinner, the woman I’m in love with thinks I am.”