My phone buzzes, and I jerk upright, reaching for it. Easton’s face grins back at me from the screen. It’s a picture I took of him when we were eating gelato in Montmartre. He’s grinning and has a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth. The picture fills me with conflicting emotions so intense that I feel like I might be torn in two. Joy, because that was the best day of my life. And longing, because whatever we had in Paris is already slipping away.

It vibrates again, and I swipe the screen to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, Shay. What’s up?” His voice is all gravelly from sleep.

“I’m sorry. Are you awake?” Idiotic questions for five hundred, Alex. I flinch when I look at the clock. It’s before eight here, which means it’s not even five in the morning in L.A. “I mean, obviously you are now, but I . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I normally get up at five anyway. Are you okay?”

No. You’ve barely talked to me since you left Paris. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” I hate the sound of the sob in my throat.

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t called. I came back to a mess here and I just had to deal with everything. I’m glad you texted. I was planning to make this call today.”

This call. Like it’s one very specific conversation he needed to check off a list and not one of hundreds he plans to have with me. “Wha—why? What’s going on?” But I already know. I hear it in his voice. We can’t be together in the real world.

“It’s Scarlett. She’s . . .” He blows out a breath. “I can’t get into details. She’s a very private person, but she needs me right now. I think . . .”

“You think what?” My voice breaks. I already know. I’m going to make him say it anyway.

“I think I need to be here for her. I need to help her.”

“Okay . . . but that doesn’t mean you can’t call.”

“Shit,” he mutters, and I imagine him scrubbing his hand over his face. “Shayleigh, I’ve always known you were too good for me.”

“No.” Tears roll hot down my cheeks. “Don’t give me that.”

“Why not? Isn’t it true?”

“No. It’s not true, and it’s a lame excuse. If you’re freaking out about what happened between us when we were in Paris, then that’s on you. Don’t try to pretend that you’re pushing me away because I’m just so great. Don’t try to pretend you’re doing me a favor.”

“East?” I can barely make out the small voice in the background. Feminine, worried. “Who is that? Are you coming back to bed?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.