God, I’m such an idiot. After the way I treated him, he certainly shouldn’t be waiting around for me, but she doesn’t even look familiar. Is she from around here? Or did he bring her from L.A.? “Blonde, perky boobs.” I hold up a pinkie. “About this big.”

“Are you talking about Tori?”

I return to my cookie retrieval. “Don’t know. Didn’t get her name. She just answered your door.”

“The blonde who answered my door would be Tori, my nanny,” he says with a freight-ton of emphasis on the last word. He’s not just saying she’s his nanny; he’s saying I’m freaking mental for assuming something else. I know it to be true, so I’m not going to argue.

“Oh.” I shrug. “Your nanny, then. My mistake, but I’m sure people make it all the time.”

“Since she’s barely twenty years old. I would hope not.”

My eyes flick up to meet his. “I was twenty when we were in Paris.”

He rocks back on his heels with a deep breath, then pushes himself to standing. Because I’m a bitch. Obviously. Shit.

Guilt washes over me. I abandon the cookies and stand. “I ruin everything. I was coming to apologize.”

He arches a brow. “Really. And what were you going to apologize for?”

He’s going to make me say it. Sonofabitch. “The sex.” I grind out the word.

His lips twitch again, and then he stops fighting it and full-on smiles. “I didn’t need an apology for the sex.” He rakes his gaze over me and back up. “I liked the sex, Shay. You’re right. We are good together. I didn’t take issue with the sex. I took issue with the part where you made assumptions and refused to talk to me.”

I swallow. And here I am, making more assumptions. “Fair enough.”

He nods toward the house. “Want to come inside? I could make you some coffee and . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, and the movement does such good things for his pecs and biceps. Is he intentionally trying to use his body against me? He immediately knocks down that theory. “Abi’s home. You could meet her. If . . . if you wanted.”

There’s something about seeing him like this that gets to me. He’s not exactly insecure but more guarded and hopeful, and I realize I’m nodding.

He beams and takes the tray of broken cookies before striding past me and up the steps to his house. I follow, half convinced I’m making a terrible mistake.

I’m a few steps inside the door when the nanny—I am an idiot—greets me a second time. “Hi again!” She looks from me to Easton and back to me again. “You had the right house after all.”