Tacking on that last rule felt necessary after the other night. I hide a breathy shudder, remembering his intense gaze, that sexy voice telling me never to open the door like that again, and his obvious frustration, seeing me so bare. The what-ifs kept me awake for hours. What if he’d come in? What if he’d lightened up and extended our banter to include why I shouldn’t open the door that way? What if he’d just kissed me out of my robe like I suspected he wanted to? He did want to, right?

It’s nice to still have that effect on someone, nice that I haven’t been rendered completely sexless and unattractive over this. Nicer still that it’s him, slowly restoring my scarred ego, piece by broken piece, with every intense stare.

Still, I need the rule. Fantasizing about Grady could easily lead to falling for him, and that’s a risk my heart can’t afford to take. Moving on to someone else is frightening enough without preexisting obstacles to claw over. His guilt, for one thing. My situation, for another.

This one thing will make loving me a challenge, as if it’s not hard enough to find someone to love me in the first place. Every chance after, for me, comes with a caveat, a disclosure, and an inevitable question. Am I enough?

Easier and less painful than dealing with the inevitable rejection, never asking again. I’m okay being single. Alone has been my vibe for so long that it seems natural. Joining Ashe’s family always felt impossible, even when the walk down the aisle was all that stood between me and having a family. Maybe that’s my story—Marnie Strange, friend to all, family to none.

Eeesh.

Grady stares me down, waiting.

“Yes, I know what we said. But that was then. This is now. And I need to say I’m sorry.”

His veiny, tattooed arms unfurl from his chest and hang limply at his sides. God, when did arms get so sexy?

“I never answer my door that way,” I go on. “I thought it’d be Marigold, but it was you, and something about you and what we went through together makes me, I don’t know, feel like we’re beyond that now. Beyond pleasantries and decorum and normal stuff.”

I scoff and wince, knowing I’m not explaining this well. “I’m too comfortable with you, I guess. But more than how I answered, I regret joking about that day. In some ways, what you went through was worse. You had to think and act and wait…”

My voice trails off like I’ve expended my oxygen with the memory. I wonder what that was like for him—the waiting. “…and I’m sorry for making light of what must’ve been terrifying for you.”