His eyebrows raise. “Surprisingly? Why should you be surprised?”

“Because I’ve only ever known you to be good at breaking them.”

He frowns. “Oh, c’mon, Jewelann. That’s harsh.”

I fix him with a look but say nothing.

Christian’s frown deepens into a scowl. “Surgeons have to be good at fixing shit. That’s kind of the point.”

“They’re also supposed to have a God complex,” I point out.

“It’s not a complex. It’s a necessary self-confidence. You can’t cut into someone without being absolutely convinced of your own invincibility.”

“And you’ve always been very good at that,” I say. “Cutting into someone, absolutely convinced of your own invincibility.”

Christian lifts his glass in a one-sided toast. He sips with a small grimace that could indicate pain or pleasure; I can’t tell which. He swirls the liquid in the glass and holds it up to the light. Sips again.

“Look, I know we’ve had our issues in the past. I don’t blame you for being angry with me. I used to be a real dick.”

“Oh, you think?” Humorless laughter huffs out of me. The sincerity in his words stings me. Once upon a time, I’d have done anything for an apology from the man across from me.

“I think,” Christian says. “Yes. And I’m asking you to forgive me.”

He sounds as though he means it. I can’t trust him, of course, but everything inside me that I’ve been holding back yearns now toward him. I take the glass. Sip. The wine is thick and rich and laden with notes of cherry, chocolate, vanilla. It’s good, but of course it is. Christian wouldn’t drink anything but the best.

“You think I don’t know how bad I fucked up?” His voice goes low and rasping. His gaze cuts from mine for a second before returning. “Back then, but also now? I look around this room and think about how it was with us …”

“Stop.”

Christian moves around the counter toward me. Wine swirls in his glass as he taps it on mine. I can smell his cologne. He tips the glass to his lips and, fascinated, my eyes lock on the up-and-down pulse of his throat as he swallows. He looks me in the eyes again.

“You always tasted so good,” he murmurs.

I take a step back, turning away from him. I’m already shaking inside. My mouth dries.

“And your body … damn, Jewelann. You know how they say wine gets better with age? So did you.”

When he moves up behind me to push aside the fall of my hair, to brush the back of my neck with his fingertip, I have to put a hand on the counter to keep myself steady. He puts his arms around me. His chin on my shoulder, his cheek pressing mine. My body curves into his.

“I’m not one of your desperate fuck buddies, Christian.”

“No,” he says. “You’re definitely not.”

Red wine always makes me melancholy, and it’s hitting my empty stomach with ferocity. I’m too dizzy, too soon. How could I have thought I’d be the one in control here?