She turned toward the door.

“Lara.” He stood up.

Lara froze, one hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Quentin said, and truly meant it.

She sagged at the shoulders and pulled the door open with a sigh. “Oh, me too. But someday I’m sure I’ll look back and think of this whole thing as a learning experience. Or something trite like that.”

He watched as she closed the door without saying goodbye. He stood there and listened to those fancy shoes click down the hallway.

CAT DECIDED MANNERS were not as important as her immediate need for pie. Instead of waiting for the barista at the pie shop to bring out the freshly washed forks, Cat just stood at the counter by the window and picked up her pie in one hand, taking a bite out of the end like it was a slice of pizza.

The zingy-sweet lemon custard was almost, almost enough to lift her spirits. She’d been down ever since what Cat privately referred to as the Lara Sylvie Trash Compactor Debacle.

Well, to be specific, she’d been down ever since Quentin had given her the brush-off right after the Lara Sylvie Trash Compactor Debacle.

Cat really didn’t understand. She’d thought she and Quentin were getting along so well. Actually, she’d thought there might have even been a spark there.

But it had been four days since he’d told her he’d see her around. So, apparently she’d misidentified the aforementioned spark.

Sigh. More pie.

She was most of the way through her first slice and already contemplating a second.

“So, what’s good here?” asked a deep voice from behind her.

Cat whirled to see Quentin standing there, hands in his pockets, his expression both open and solemn.

“Pie,” she blurted around a mouthful. “Pie is what’s good here.”

“Right.” He did that adorable blushing thing and looked at the ground for a moment. His chest expanded and he looked back up at her. “I didn’t come for the pie, actually. I was hoping to see you here.”

She swallowed and cocked her head to one side. “You came to the pie shop to see me instead of knocking on my door?”

“I wanted to talk to you, but coming to your apartment felt like—I don’t know—an ambush or something.”

“Okay.” Her stomach turned upside down. Was he here to tell her he didn’t want to hang out anymore? Hadn’t the “see you around” been sufficient? She finished off the last of her pie with a flourish, hoping to summon some gusto. “Shoot.”

He cleared his throat. “Take a walk with me?”

“Sure.”

They took a right out of the pie shop, away from the trains, and wound away from the industrial part of the neighborhood. The warehouses gave way to brownstones with crooked sidewalks and cast-iron lampposts in the front yards.

“I’m just gonna say it,” Quentin said as they walked side by side, his shoulder brushing against her hair.

“Okay.” She braced herself.