“My past self deserves it. She was foolish and naïve and stupid. She believed things she should have known better than to believe.”

He doesn’t say anything. We both know what I’m talking about. We both know that I’m talking about him. He’s the mistake. The thing I had believed in.

“My past self was pretty stupid too,” he finally says. “Didn’t know a good thing when he had it.”

“You didn’t have me,” I snap. “You barely knew me.”

“I was talking about my career,” he says.

My face gets hot, and I turn away. I feel guilty and like a fool. I want to go back to my sad, empty apartment. I want to write the fastest, laziest version of this article and send it off to my editor. I want to completely, permanently sever my connection to Gabe Parker. I want to be over it. Over him.

“But not just my career,” he adds. Quietly.

It doesn’t help.

Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, the radio starts playing the song. The song that Gabe and I danced to that weekend. The one where we’d been smushed together, from our chests to our knees, and Gabe had wrapped his arms around me before dipping me low.

Back then, I’d thought it was the sexiest, most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.

Then Gabe married Jacinda Lockwood almost immediately after the article was released and I had to watch him dip her in the exact same way on the big screen in the opening sequence for his first Bond movie.

The tension in the car has gone wire taut, and I know that Gabe remembers this song. I know he’s thinking about what happened at the club.

“About that night,” he says.

I cross my arms.

“That whole weekend,” he amends. “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized,” I say.

I don’t want him to be sorry. Sorry is confirmation that he’d been faking it the whole time. From getting my phone number to bringing me to the premiere and then inviting me to his party.

“It’s fine,” I say. “We were both young and stupid. I should have known better.”

There’s a long pause.

“What about now?” he asks.

“I should know better now too, but…” I gesture at the car, at him. “I guess I haven’t learned anything.”

I lean my head back against the seat and look out the window. It’s then that I realize we’re not going to LAX.

Since I’m fairly certain Gabe isn’t kidnapping me, I don’t say anything until we arrive at a small private airport in the Valley. When we drive onto the tarmac to where a plane is waiting, that’s when I turn to Gabe, incredulous.

“A private jet?” I ask.

Gabe, at least, has the good sense to look sheepish.