It wasn’t that he didn’t want to deal with her emotional breakdown. He wanted to fix it. To make her feel better. And he didn’t know how.

Olivia knew whom to turn to for comfort. She’d wanted Ricky. And he’d talked her out of it. He’d been hurt and, yes, jealous, unwilling to acknowledge that someone else could help her when he could not. So how had he handled the situation? By making it worse.

His intentions had been good. He could tell she wanted a drink, so he’d taken her to a bar where they could talk about the visit. Except he’d inadvertently chosen a place where they couldn’t talk about anything. When she said that was fine, again he’d felt relief. He could get her a drink and be spared the necessity of conversation, which would save him from failing to make the correct response.

He’d watched her mood drop ever lower, and he’d known he’d made a mistake. Then Ricky had called, and he’d had the chance to repair the damage. Admit Olivia was not fine and Ricky would be there within the hour. Problem solved. Olivia’s problem solved. By someone else. Which meant there was no way he could bring himself to say, “She’s not fine.” Three simple words. One crushing admission.

“If you have any reason to think Liv needs me, say the word and I’m on the way.”

“She’s fine.”

“Okay, then. I trust you to make that call.”

Another sound from inside the bedroom. He rapped softly enough that it wouldn’t wake her, but when she didn’t answer, his anxiety grew.

He eased the door open. The room was pitch-dark, Olivia having pulled the blackout blind. He pushed the door so that the living room light shone through, and then he scoured the familiar room for anything unfamiliar. Nothing.

Olivia was still asleep, tossing restlessly, making the bed creak. He eased the door farther open, light illuminating the bed. That’s when he saw her, really saw her. She lay on her side, head on his pillow, her nightshirt riding up around her waist, her legs bare . . . more than her legs bare.

Olivia. In his bed.

The image was as unwelcome as the one Morgan had sent to his phone, but he didn’t delete this one. No, he stood, and he watched, and he thought, considered, imagined—

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t do any good. He could still see her there, in his bed . . .

Where she should not be. Not in his bed. Not in his apartment. What the hell had he been thinking? What was he doing, not just bringing her here, but any of it, all of it?