His silence was deafening, and the expressionless mask he wore, or what I could see of it in the dim light, was back. I realized now, he wore it when he was feeling things the most.

I squeezed his hand. “Goodbye, Xavier.”

Then I’d turned and walked back up to the house.

Chapter Forty-Seven

“So, are we sending Xavier Pascale a bag of dicks?” asked Meredith, eyes widening with feigned innocence as she closed her mouth over her paper straw. The Mexican restaurant in downtown Charleston was quiet for a Wednesday evening.

“Stop.” I laughed thinly. Then I frowned when I thought about Dauphine accidentally coming across a bag of candy penises. No. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” My fingers were making confetti out of the paper coaster.

“Apart from not seeing what an awesome creature he had in his grasp and letting you go. Nay, pushing you away.” Meredith set her drink down. “I’m just saying. You’ve been back three weeks. Stella, baby, you need your groove back.”

My smile wasn’t forced, but humor was just a foreign place for me. “I loved that movie. We should watch it tonight. Actually, let’s go home and put on PJs right now. Taye Diggs for the win,” I deflected.

She gave a saucy smile and flicked her hair off her shoulder. “He’s a tasty snack. And he follows me on Instagram.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Does too.” She snatched her phone off the table top and swiped the screen. Then her phone came at my face so fast I ducked. “See?”

“Dude, I can’t focus on the screen when you’re trying to shove it up my nose.” I suppressed a laugh. Grabbing her wrist, I held her phone at a respectable distance. “What am I looking at? This isn’t Instagram.”

“I screen-grabbed the notification of him following me obviously, duh. That’s once in a lifetime shit right there.”

“Let me see his profile,” I teased. “Something tells me he also follows three hundred million other people.”

She pouted but held her phone away from me. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Does too.”

“Just because you’re in heartbreak-loser-ville, don’t drag me there too.”

“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.”

“I don’t have sympathy.” She leaned forward. “You could be boinking a smoking hot French billionaire right now, who literally asked you to stay for the hot sex by the way, and instead you came moping back home.” She picked up her paper straw and swatted my hand. “You don’t deserve the luck. Seriously. And we’re not going home to get into PJs.”

“Please?”