“I can’t even count how many times I’ve tried to remember it and God knows how terrible I felt for not remembering our first time. For fucking thinking I might’ve hurt you somehow,” he said, rubbing his left hand over his chest, above his heart. “And this whole fucking time, nothing even happened between us? Are you seriously fucking joking right now?”

“No,” I whispered, blinking back hot tears. “I should’ve told you—­”

“Hell’s yes, you should’ve told me. You had eleven months to tell me, Roxy. That’s a long time.”

I stood. “Reece—­”

“Instead you’ve been lying to me this whole time?” His brows rose, and for a moment, I saw everything I never wanted to see written across his striking face. Pain. Hurt. Disbelief. All of those mingled with the anger that tightened his jaw. “Wait. Not actively lying. Just letting me believe in a lie.”

I started around the table. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds lame, but I am so sorry. It’s just at first you weren’t talking to me and then so much time passed and—­”

“And you didn’t know how you’d be able to talk yourself around that lie? Sounds fucking familiar,” he spat. I knew at once he was talking about his father. “Honest to God, Roxy, I never thought . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. He’d never thought I’d so brazenly lie to him, and I had. Pain sliced through my chest. I wanted to crawl under the table, but I forced myself to stand there and take it like a grown adult.

Reece opened his mouth, but the muted sound of a phone ringing interrupted him. Pivoting on his heel, he stalked over to where he’d dropped his bag last night. He yanked his phone out of the side pocket.

His eyes were on me as he answered the phone. “What’s up, Colt?”

It was his brother on the other line, and I wasn’t sure if it was personal or cop-­related.

“Shit. You serious?” Reece raised his free hand and scrubbed it through his hair. He dropped his hand. “That’s not good.”

I had no idea what was going on, so I turned and picked up his empty plate. Opening the dishwasher, I almost dropped the plate.

A pair of my undies was in the utensils holder, stuffed into the square cubby. My hand shook as I stared at them. They were—­oh my God—­they were the black lacy thongs that I wished I’d worn last night.

How in the world did they end up in the dishwasher?

I hadn’t opened the dishwasher since Sunday, if I remembered correctly. Yesterday, I hadn’t used any dishes and I’d left the cup I’d used in the sink.