Her gaze slid to him again and then away, shaken by what she saw in his face. He stepped back, giving her space, hating how hard it was to do.

Her eyes were more exhausted than he’d ever seen them, and so filled with sadness they made it impossible to reach for the comfort of his anger. But he needed that anger. To wipe away the feel of her hand. To remind him that the sadness in her eyes wasn’t his problem. She had walked away from the kind of happiness he had made glow in her eyes. He could have that happiness again, with someone who wanted it, needed it, as much as he did.

If he let the anger slip away, if he forgot why he was here, he would have no one but himself to blame for ending up alone. Again. Someone who betrayed you once would betray you again. Always.

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, Ashna looked at DJ with the kind of affection that made Rico forget what he was trying to forget. The red chef’s jacket made it hard not to follow along as her skin paled and blushed in turn as she found her way from fragility to strength then back again, over and over, giving him whiplash.

The cameras panned toward them and DJ threw the warmest smile her way. “Next up is Chef Ashna Raje and her partner, the greatest striker in the history of football, Frederico Silva.”

The audience went wild, their share of applause noticeably louder than everyone else’s. DJ made a production out of waiting for the applause to die down without seeming like a hack. The network had done well with their choice of host. The man had a deep, sophisticated voice and a London accent that moved comfortably between posh and working class. He grinned at Rico with the friendliness of someone Rico had not been an arse to just recently.

The person who had provoked him enough to make an arse out of himself turned to him and seemed to read exactly how guilty he was feeling. That of all things seemed to loosen out the knots she’d been tied up in since they had arrived at the studio today.

“Bonus points for calling it football, mate,” Rico said, and the crowd booed playfully.

“And by football they both mean soccer,” Ashna added. “This is America, guys!”

The crowd went nuts.

In high school she had sounded almost American, with only a little bit of a colonial lilt accenting some of her words.

Now she sounded completely American.