When I look over at him, he’s turned toward me, elbows on his knees, deeply engrossed in a study of the tiled floor. Fine. If he’s not going to tell me what he needs, then I’m not going to ask. I go back to my email, realize my last sentence is nearly incoherent, and delete it.

“You’re giving me the silent treatment?”

Sighing, I pull my gaze off my screen and turn to him. “What gives you that idea?”

He lifts his head, and those sea-green eyes search my face. Whoever gave Easton Connor those eyes wanted to torture me. No one should have eyes that make you feel lost and precious all at once. It’s not fair. “You barely talked to me at all at brunch.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m giving you the silent treatment.”

Leaning back in his chair, he folds his arms. He’s not buying my shit, and I don’t care. “You blocked me on social media—I sent requests.”

I snort. “Really, Easton? Do you care if some girl from back home keeps her accounts private?”

“You’re more than that to me, and you know it.”

“Am I?” My heart is doing some really crazy racing-and-stuttering thing in my chest. Like someone’s trying to test its accelerator and its brakes at the same time. “I don’t go years without talking to the people who matter to me, so I guess I don’t know anything.”

“Would you have talked to me if I’d tried?” He swallows, his eyes scanning my face over and over. What’s he looking for? A sign that he didn’t screw things up with me? Proof that maybe we can still be friends after everything? He can keep looking, but he’s not going to find it.

“It doesn’t matter.” I close my laptop. “That was all a long time ago, and I’m not some moon-eyed girl anymore.”

“Have dinner with me,” he blurts.

Clearly, guilt over the past has made this man lose his mind. It’s bad enough that he’s moving back, but he can’t seriously expect me to want to spend time alone with him. “Why?”

He blinks. “Because I missed you? Because I want a chance to apologize properly?” He looks out the window over my shoulder and frowns. “I’m not wrong, am I? You’ve never told your family . . . about us?”

I shake my head and slide my laptop into my bag. “I don’t hate you, I don’t need to go to dinner to hear you apologize, and my family doesn’t need to know about our mistakes.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Was that all I was to you? A mistake?”

I’m too tired to deal with this today. Merely sitting beside him is more emotionally taxing than I was prepared for. “What else would you call it?”