Emma chimed in, of course. “I wish you could see what we see, East. You’re not just good at your job, you’re an amazing guy and I’m sure Professor Hottie knows that too. He keeps coming back, doesn’t he?” I smiled at her nickname for Patrice, but stayed quiet, figuring myself out.

The truth was, no matter how much I wanted to take what they were saying and run with it, things kept getting more complicated, and this morning hurt. If there really was any chance of us moving forward, I couldn’t keep making the first move, or letting Patrice act like whatever happened was him not thinking. No, I agreed with Grandpa. I could meet Patrice halfway, but for any of this to work, he would have to step up too.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Patrice

I walked up to Easton’s apartment feeling all kinds of inadequate. He’d left my house this morning looking defeated and shamed. I’d done that with my shitty behavior, and I had to fix it, or I could at least try to make amends. I knocked on the door twice and then remembered there was a buzzer. But before I could press the button, the door opened.

I’d been prepared for pajamas or sweats, but Easton in denim cutoffs and an oversized University of Buffalo sweatshirt, wearing adorable woolly socks, had an intense effect on me.

I sucked in a breath as I held up the bag of Vietnamese takeout I’d picked up from a place Nesto kept raving about. There was a bite in the air, and I thought some pho might be a decent peace offering.

“I brought you dinner.” I shuffled my feet some, and felt awkward as hell as I made myself say the rest of what I’d come here to do. “And an apology.”

For a second Easton hesitated, his eyebrows furrowed like this turn of events had completely thrown him off. He turned his head to the side and looked behind himself, as if the food had to be for an imaginary roommate, then he stepped out into the hallway.

I was not being invited in. Okay, I deserved that.

I backed up to give him space and his eyes were giving me no quarter. “You don’t owe me anything.” The finality in his tone was not easy to hear.

I hoped he could see how fucked up I felt about how things had ended with us this morning. I hoped he knew what to do about this, about us, because I was lost.

I was about to try and tell him that when he sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked tired. “I’m really tired, Patrice.”