“You’re such a liar.” He drags one hand across my stomach as his other hand glides along my side boob.

“I told you, don’t,” I say right before I spin around and come face to face with him. There’s his tempting, seductive eyes, the feel of his hardening cock pressing against me, and those lips that I know can do the most euphoric damage to my body.

“Why do you hate me?” he asks, his voice sounding like it’s full of gravel.

“Hate is a strong word.”

“You don’t love me,” he says. “If you loved me, you’d be willing to give me another chance.”

“I did give you another chance.” I place my hands on his chest, ready to push him away. “I gave you three chances actually, but you just didn’t listen.”

“I listen to you, Myla.”

“Do you?” I ask him with a tilt of my head. “Okay, so tell me, what classes have I been taking lately?”

His brow furrows. “Classes?” he asks. “You didn’t tell me about any classes.”

“Yes, I did,” I say. “I told you about them when you took me out to that fancy seafood restaurant in Malibu. Your response was, ‘do what makes you happy, babe,’ and then you turned back to your emails.” Hands still on his chest, I push him away and move toward my bedroom again.

“Myla, wait, I don’t . . . I don’t remember that.”

“That’s because you haven’t been present since you hung up your cleats,” I answer. My throat tightens, and before he can see me cry, I walk into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

I have no idea where Nichole is. She probably met a guy at a coffee house, so I pull one of Ryot’s Bobbies T-shirts from the basket of clothes I folded for him, slip it over my head, and then bury myself in my pillow where I cry.

I cry in frustration.

I cry in anger.

I cry because even though Ryot is the man I’ve always dreamed of, somewhere along the way, he lost himself and became the man I’ve always dreaded.

Careless.

Absent.

Indifferent.

But the worst part is when I see small glimpses of the man I fell in love with. Little windows into the past Ryot when he calls me babe, when he’s playful with me, and when he’s vulnerable like just now. Those moments remind me of the man who took his time to woo me into one single date.

But he’s no longer that man.

He’s crude, cunning, and power-hungry. And I don’t like it.

After what feels like an hour of crying into my pillow, I lift as my door opens, praying it’s not Ryot coming to talk. I hold my breath, but thankfully, it’s just Nichole. She’s holding a plate of éclairs with a Post-it note stuck to the top.

I wipe at my eyes. “What’s that?” I ask.

“It was by the door,” she says. “I’m assuming it’s from your roommate upstairs.”