He held it up, and I found myself smiling—really smiling, not that fabricated stretch of lips I’d been wearing since I walked into my apartment last night.

“It’s perfect,” I answered, my voice softer than I’d intended.

And then he was smiling too, an expression to match mine, genuine and earnest. It did something to his eyes, which were a shade of blue so bright and dense and deep, I was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.

“Thank you,” I said. “For coming here and measuring for me.”

“Even though I undermined your clients?”

“Client. Charles isn’t allowed to have opinions.”

“Poor sucker. Gelded already, and he hasn’t even walked down the aisle.”

“Well, we can’t all be lucky in love, now can we?” My tone was cool, bitter.

And he instantly knew. I could see it on his face, which disguised nothing.

“I suppose not,” he mused without pressing. “But I’ve seen enough of love to know if you hold out, it’ll find you whether you want it to or not.”

I chuckled, folding my arms. “In all your worldly experience, that’s your take?”

“You have a different one?”

One shoulder flicked in an impatient shrug, my heart a tight, closed thing. “That everyone’s hiding something, and it’s only a matter of time until the truth is exposed.”

At that, his lips turned down at the corners. Broad forearms fanned across the tops of his knees, dusted with dark hair, threaded with veins like rivers running down to square hands. “You don’t think honesty is possible?”

“People conceal what they don’t want you to see, to control what you know, to manipulate you. Everyone does it. It’s just human nature.”

Dark brows held together with a crease over those striking blue eyes. “Ivy and Dean?”

“They’re different,” I snapped dismissively. “Most of us can’t expect something that honest.”

He stood, so much taller than me from his perch on the step. His brow smoothed, his smile easy, but I saw something behind his eyes, a challenge maybe. A sadness but not pity.

“I like to think we accept the love we think we deserve, like the old adage says. If you meet as equals, there’s nothing to hide. And if you’re so certain everyone’s out to hurt you, you’ll probably end up hurt.”

I shifted, stepping back with a derisive laugh, affected by his nearness. “If only it were that easy.”

Kash bent, snagging the handle of his bag, slinging it across his body. “It’s only as hard as you make it.”

I wanted to scoff, to tell him exactly why he was wrong and argue my point until he agreed with me, or at least pretended to. But more than that, I wanted to exit the conversation, my hurt too close and sharp and new to defend or dissect.