Apart.

He buried himself in work for the next few hours. He couldn’t do anything else. Thinking about her hurt too much.

He put on blinders, and narrowed his focus solely to running his company. Tending to matters. Dealing with suppliers. Even reviewing the plans he’d put together to “change the conversation” when it came to Denkler. The plans were good, solid, strong.

Casey had sent over the marketing strategy. Henry and Eden were fully on board too. But honestly, it wouldn’t take much to get the word out. A few well-placed signs outside Henry’s Upper East Side store, a few online ads, and some social media mentions. Then word would spread of exactly how Eden and Joy Delivered contributed to the community.

Conroy was winning with a message that appeared positive. Denkler and company would overtake him, with a far, far better one.

The approach would work; he was as sure of that as he was of anything when it came to business. He knew how to navigate the choppy waters of the business world. Show him a problem, he’d show you the solution. That was his specialty. Applying logic. Studying the map and seeing a new route through. Finding the path that others hadn’t spotted yet.

With Michelle, he was sure of nothing. He felt so damn much for her. It was like a geyser inside of him, overflowing, and he didn’t know what to do with all these thoughts rushing at him. Confessing about Aubrey was like sloughing off the past, shedding all that had held him back.

So why couldn’t he take the next step with her?

Michelle vexed him. His feelings for her had thoroughly and completely thrown him off. He had to solve the problem. He had to figure this out. He slammed his laptop shut and paced the room. To the window. To the bathroom door. To the couch again.

The whole damn room smelled of her. He grabbed her red dress from last night; it had been tossed onto a chair by the window. It probably landed there when he tugged it off her. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled her. She was in him. She filled him. She flooded his nostrils, and permeated every pore of his body.

He dropped the dress on top of her suitcase, missing her, even when she’d only been gone a few hours.

He grabbed his phone, just in case she’d texted him or called. But his screen was quiet, and it pissed him off. He stared at the phone as if it were the phone’s fault, then he gunned it at the ground.

It clunked dully on the carpet.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He couldn’t even throw a phone properly. He couldn’t even break a piece of technology. He swiveled around, hunting for a glass, a vase, something. But then he stopped, shoving his hand through his hair. Throwing shit wasn’t the solution. He knew better.