Page 93 of The Romance Line

I head home, hop into the shower, and wash off the chaos of the day and the hard work of the class. When I’m done, I tug on sweats and a tank top, then head to the kitchen as the door buzzer sounds from my phone. Worry races through me. It’s evening. I’m not expecting a delivery. And I certainly don’t answer the door to strangers.

Like it’s a gun I need for protection, I grab my phone from my sweatpants pocket.

Oh.

The camera app tells me it’s not a stranger with a delivery. It’s Max with a delivery. An annoying burst of excitement rushes through me, along with nerves too. No idea why he’s here. I wish I weren’t excited at all to see him. I wish I felt nothing.

But I don’t. I feel too much for a man I can’t have. That’s the problem.

I grab a hoodie and zip it up halfway since I might be ready for my teacher to see my scars but I’m not ready for Max to see all of me.

I buzz him into the building, and it feels like it takes an eternity and no time at all for him to bound up the stairs. When I open the door he’s holding two paper cups, like he’s weighing them as his eyes lock with mine. “I didn’t just get an extra London fog that day in Seattle by chance. I got it for you.”

31

THE BOYFRIEND TREATMENT

Everly

My heart bounces from the admission. But does it really change anything? I don’t know. That’s the problem with Max—I’ve never had answers. Maybe because I haven’t ever known the questions.

Or the score.

I try to tamp down my emotions as I hold open the door for him. He’s a guy coming to apologize, and that’s that. “It’s a London fog latte,” he explains as he hands me a cup.

It’s just a caffeinated beverage. I take it, trying not to clasp it as if it’s some incredible gift while I berate myself for wishing it were one. I shouldn’t want his gifts so much, or the boyfriend treatment behind them. I shouldn’t want them to mean something…big.

Like he’s mine.

He swallows roughly, then nods to the cup in my hand. “I didn’t know if you liked decaf at night. So I got you both. That’s the caffeinated one.”

I clutch it tighter. “I live for caffeine.”

“Me too,” he says, but his voice sounds raw. “Everly, I didn’t know she was coming.” It’s said like a confession—one that’s vital for me to know.

“It’s okay. I’m not upset.” That’s mostly true. Pole got me through my topsy-turvy, terrifying feelings—I have too many of those when it comes to this man. But I don’t have a right to be upset. He’s not mine, and he can’t be mine.

Max steps closer, pushing the door closed behind him. The last time we were alone in my house I wound up against the wall, in his arms, falling apart. I can’t let that happen again tonight.

“I feel like shit because she texted me a few days ago,” he adds.

I freeze. “She did?” I’m so confused now. I don’t know what to think.

“She said hi and asked if we could talk. I ignored it,” he says, like that was the worst thing he could have done when I probably would’ve done the same if I were him. “That was a mistake. I have no idea why she showed up today. No clue what she’s up to. But I probably could’ve stopped her if I’d picked up the phone and talked to her.” He drags his free hand through his wildly messy hair that he’s likely been making messier all night. “Like I could have stopped all those goals tonight. I fucked that shit up too.”

“It’s one game. The season is long. You put it behind you like you always do,” I say, reassuring him because he’s surprisingly hard on himself tonight after a loss. He’s not usually like this.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, but his eyes betray his frustration.

Then I remember what the press said—that she consoled him after losses. Maybe they know more about him than I do. Maybe this is how he normally behaves when they don’t win. Maybe I know him less than I’d thought I did.

I feel so unmoored. I take a drink of the beverage rather than speaking. I’m not sure what I’m ready to say to him.

When I lower the cup, he says, “I brought you something else too.” He dips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and takes out an envelope.

I wasn’t expecting anything at all. I gesture to the purple couch and we sit down, setting the cups on the French blue wooden coffee table across from me. He hands me the white envelope, and it’s from You Look Gorgeous Today. “That’s my salon,” I say.

I look at the card as if it’s an oddity, then at the man who’s not scowling at me, or smirking. Those are his usual expressions. But right now, his face is open, hopeful.