“Okay, good. Because I was lying. I didn’t want to come back. I brought enough breakfast to feed a family of five, including teenagers. So, I hope you haven’t eaten.”

She held up her arms, each hand bearing a large bag of food from a bagel shop down the street. The smell of bacon, eggs, and freshly baked bread hit my nose, and my stomach instantly groaned in protest of its maltreatment.

“Starving,” I answered, stepping back to allow her entry.

“Perfect.”

I stood at the door, watching her walk past, and I took a moment to just stare at her.

In my house.

Twenty minutes ago, I’d felt alone and lifeless in this place. And, now, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

She seemed to have this effect anywhere she went. She brought life to everything.

Maybe even me.

Cara wasn’t kidding about the food.

It was enough to feed the entire floor or keep me fed for at least a week.

“Did you think I lived with a traveling circus?” I asked.

Cara shoved the leftovers in the fridge, as I held on to the cups of coffee I’d brewed.

She laughed as we migrated into the living room, settling into the sofa I’d called home for the last two days. I quickly pushed the blankets and pillows out of the way, hoping she wouldn’t ask why it looked like someone had camped out here.

Her eyes shifted to the empty bottles on the table.

“Rough night,” I said evasively. “Crashed on the couch.”

She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

Awkward silence followed.

I wanted to ask where she’d been, but then again, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. If she said Tyler’s, I didn’t know if I could hold back the words that would inevitably fly from my mouth.

I was done being the nice guy, sitting idly by, waiting for the girl to make up her mind.

I was never that guy.

But I also didn’t want to be the one who was rejected and given a consolation breakfast as an apology.

So, I sat.

In silence.

Waiting for her to say something. The ball was in her court after all.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said suddenly.

I looked at her, amusement and perhaps a bit of surprise painted across my features.

“You’re worried.”

“How would you know that?” I asked.

Her hand lifted, and her finger extended toward my face. “Your forehead. Whenever you worry—which is practically all the time, by the way—you get this crease right down the middle, between your eyebrows. And, when it’s really bad, you run your hands through your hair until you have pathways of worry etched in it.”