“Well, what’s the alternative?” He elevates one eyebrow. “If we go to mine, Dom might catch us.”

“I’m not going to yours either.”

I grab my backpack and start for my car. He falls into step with me. In fact, his stride is so fast, his legs so long, it looks like I’m slowing him down. “If this is about the whole getting-together thing, I can’t do a three-way lunch, Joe. I have a lot of work this month. Consider us over, done, and dealt with. And I’ll respect your wish and won’t say anything to Dom about us. But please don’t make me play BFFs with you.” It hurts too much, I don’t add.

Every word feels like a bullet in my mouth. I can feel the metallic taste of it rubbing on my gums. I fling the driver’s door open. He reaches behind me and slams it shut. His body is so close to mine it radiates heat. I turn around, narrowing my eyes at him. “Step away or I’ll kick you in the balls.”

Slowly—teasingly—Joe takes a small step back, still close enough that I can feel him everywhere.

“Ever,” he rasps.

I close my eyes. God, I’m so screwed. My name on his lips alone makes my insides liquefy. I’m trying the best I can here, but I’m helpless.

“No,” I respond, without hearing the rest. I can’t do this to Dom. I can’t do this to myself. I’ve reached my guilt quota for this lifetime.

Joe’s fingers curl around my collarbone. I resist the urge to collapse onto his chest and sob. It feels so good. So right to be touched by him. I try to think if it’s appropriate or not. His touch. It is somewhere between a shoulder clasp and a tender caress. But I’m so confused, I can’t tell.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

I do. We stare at each other.

“Relax. I’m not going to kiss you,” he reassures me, a good amount of satisfaction in his voice, probably because he knows that he can. He knows I wouldn’t be able to push him away.

“I’m not scared of you.” I narrow my eyes.

“That so?” He looks entertained, in the same deadpan, dark way of his. “Maybe you should be, based on your reaction to me.”

“Why are you here?” I ask, for the millionth time.

He tosses his cigarette to the curb. “After Christmas . . . I don’t know what happened. Or, I’m not sure how it happened. But suddenly, for the first time in six years, I started—”

“Writing,” I finish the sentence for him. His eyes widen slightly, but he keeps himself in check. It is beneath the great Joe Graves to show emotions.