I knew that and the more I thought about it the guiltier I felt about the way I’d handled things with the show. Because as much as it was true that I was trying to give her two days of peace, I was also buying myself time. I didn’t want to see her disappointed because something I’d brought her into had ended up blowing up in both our faces. After she’d left the penthouse I had gone straight to the studio and tried to figure out what they were planning. Sarah Billings, my contact, had been vague, but hopeful they could get the show on air, but could not promise when. I’d even called the Sturm twins, who assured me they would apply their own pressure on the producers. But when I’d tried to call Alba to tell her, she’d ignored my calls. She didn’t trust that what we’d made in Dallas together would last.

“Have you told her that you’re staying here permanently?”

“How did you—”

“She’s basically like a hot, Latina, non-racist J. Edgar Hoover,” Rocco said, completely serious. Julia preened despite the death glare she was sending in my direction. If I wasn’t so fucked up in that moment, I would’ve laughed.

“I told her.” More like I’d implied I would if she stayed too, which was not the same thing. No wonder she didn’t think she could count on a damn thing from me. If I wanted her to believe I was for real, I’d have to start giving Alba a lot more than just lip service. I shook my head, wrecked beyond anything I’d felt before in my life. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. I thought we could make a go of things here, but I fucked everything up.”

“No, that asshole director fucked everything up,” Julia disagreed forcefully. “You just fucked up with her. And now you need to fix it.”

“I don’t know how.” I almost wished she’d take a swing at me.

“Yeah you do know, you got your ass over here when she quit. You got here ready to change your life for her, so motherfucker, go ahead and change it.” She was yelling now, spitting mad. Rocco went and got an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter like his girlfriend wasn’t gearing up to scratch my eyes out. “Moping around this penthouse isn’t it, bro,” she said, waving her hands toward the small pile of boxes. “I assumed Mr. Olympics had some kind of a plan once you got her back, but I guess I was wrong.”