“Lines repeating in your head? Even the ones that aren’t yours?”

Anya’s expression is wry and knowing. “Hell, I even remember the instructions my director gives the crew.”

We exchange grins. Somewhere to my left, I feel the presence of a camera. I hear it click to take a picture. A quick look catches the guilty party—a guy setting his phone down too fast, his gaze shuffling away from my own. I don’t mind, though. That’s why I’m here—to be seen with Anya.

At least, in part. When Timothy proposed a date with Anya, that’s how he sold it. But the reason I agreed is a little more muddy. I needed to get out of the house, away from Delilah.

She’s avoiding me anyway, making it perfectly clear that she wants no part of getting in deeper with me. Okay, we haven’t outright discussed the issue. Because every fucking time I try, she scuttles off like a crab being chased by a gull.

I know Delilah as well as I know myself; she’s running scared. I don’t blame her. I’m not exactly peachy right now either. It’s a shit thing to realize you’re falling for your old enemy. Makes me question everything. Makes me hesitant. I hate hesitation, damn it.

My gut churns, and I focus on my date—who is supposed to remind me that there are plenty of women in the world. One is as good as any other.

Total bullshit. If people were interchangeable, we’d never grow attached to someone. It’s painfully clear now that Delilah cannot be replaced by Anya.

Anya, who is smiling at me, her eyes warm and inviting. “You know, there is only one thing that gets my mind off work now.”

She’s close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume. It is a punch to the gut to realize it’s the same as Delilah’s. I recognize the scent: apples and brown sugar, smoky caramel. Only it’s different on Anya. Not worse. But different, oddly less enticing. It doesn’t get my cock to rise the way smelling it on Delilah does.

Jesus, I’m in a bad way. I resist the urge to tug at my collar. “Oh?” What were we talking about again?

“Sex.”

Right. “Sex.”

Anya’s glossy lips curl in a sly smile. “Hot, sweaty sex. You know the kind that makes you forget your own name?”

I gulp down some ice water, something inside my gut curdling. Do I know that sex? No. No, I fucking don’t. I know how to please a woman. I’ve spent years learning how to best get them off and begging for me. And why? So they don’t notice that I’m not as blown away as they are, that I’m only partially engaged.