At first, I assumed he was here to bug me yet again about my “problem,” but he’s acting as though he’s about to face a firing squad, so now I’m not so sure. Fear that it’s about one of our friends starts creeping up my shoulder blades.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“Wrong?” He rubs the back of his neck, the action making his biceps pop. A huff of dark amusement leaves him. “I don’t know. I’m at your house alone for the second time in…well, ever, about to make a fool out of myself. Again.” His arm drops, and he frowns, pinning me with a look. “I don’t know if I’d define that as wrong, precisely.”

My heartbeat has kicked up at his words. “Well, that’s easy to fix. Don’t make a fool out of yourself.” Before he can answer, I head for the den and my movie. I honestly don’t know if I want him to leave or follow.

He follows, those denim eyes solemn and watchful. He doesn’t sit when I plop myself down on the couch and curl up in the corner. His gaze drifts to the bent glass coffee table littered with fashion magazines and my snack, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “You put your Pringles in a crystal serving bowl?”

“I like nice things.” I snatch up a chip and stuff it into my mouth to hide my sudden case of the fidgets.

He glances around the room, taking in the ice-blue paneled walls, the heavy cream drapes, the wall of bookshelves that frame my giant TV, the gold-framed abstract art in splashes of black and indigo. My whole apartment is an ode to 1930s glamour. It’s over-the-top but also comfortable. Rye—with his battered boots, worn jeans, and thick-ass scruff that’s now firmly in beard territory—looks completely out of place. Then again, Jax’s house is done up so fancy, it might as well be Buckingham Palace, so it’s not as though Rye isn’t used to it.

Even so, I eye him warily, waiting for further comment on my extravagant tastes. But he merely takes a visible breath and sits on the opposite side of the couch, exhaling as though he’s at the end of a very long day and it’s the first time he’s had a chance to rest.

“You want a drink?” I ask, reaching for my wine.

He eyes it but shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

The silence between us grows thick and unwieldy, the sound of me crunching on my chips so loud, it’s almost comical. I take a sip of my chardonnay to clear my throat.

“Rye—”

“Thing is,” he says at the same time. “I told myself the same all the way over here.”

“The same?” I parrot, confused.

He turns his head, and our gazes snag. His is bloodshot and unsure. “To let it go and not make a fool out of myself.” The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Again.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“That I am.” Rye leans back, letting his head rest on the couch. “Scottie said he saw you leave. Without Mr. Taco.”

“Mr. Taco?” I half laugh then glare when it hits me. “Is that what you’re calling Marshall? Mature, Rye. Truly.”

He scowls down at his big hands. They’re callused and battered by years of playing dozens of instruments. “Can you blame me with that line? Let’s go taco-hunting? If I said that cheesy shit, you’d laugh me out of the room.”

“That would be ridiculous coming from you. You’re much more of a hamburgers-and-hot dog-lover.”

“I like tacos just fine,” he grumbles.

I make a sound of amazed disbelief. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t appear happy about that. With a noise of frustration, he turns his body to face mine. The couch feels much smaller because of it. Rye is a big guy: muscles for days, long limbs, and wide shoulders. He takes up space, not just bodily, but with his presence of will. All the restless energy that always seems to simmer just under his skin is now focused completely on me.

My skin tightens, a flush of…something…warms my chest.

“Bren…I…fuck it.” He puffs out a harsh breath. “Look, I know we’ve had this holding pattern of mutual irritation and occasional loathing—”

“Only occasional?” I can’t help but tease.

He gives me a quelling look before forging on. “And I know you hate that I overheard your confession. But I did. I can’t change that or the fact that it changed me.” He pokes the center of his chest with his thumb for emphasis. “Because it did, Bren. I can’t get it out of my head. God knows I’d love to stop thinking about it, about you.”

Same here, buttercup. It’s oddly reassuring to know he’s struggling as well.

Rye leans in as though he might touch me. But he obviously thinks better of it because his hand drops to his thigh instead. From under his strong brows, his eyes are wide and imploring.

“When Scottie fixed you up with Mr. Cheese Puff Taco, I thought, Good, great, she might find someone to give her what she wants, maybe even more. Or at least, I tried to think that.” He winces and bites his bottom lip. Dusky red washes over his high cheekbones, surprising the hell out of me because Rye never blushes anymore.

“I tried, Bren. I really did. But I’m going to be honest here. Jealousy hit me over the head hard, and all I wanted to do was go back in there and throw him out on his ass.”

With that, he stops and stares at me, clearly embarrassed by his confession, but just as clearly willing me to fully hear him. A gurgle of shock sounds in my throat. Because I heard him loud and clear. And I’m floored. I have never known Rye to be jealous. Of anything. He isn’t built that way.

He keeps giving up pieces of himself, knowing that my pride took a big hit when he overheard me. The gesture flutters through me like a breath of warm air, finding its way through the small cracks in my resistance. I find myself relaxing just a bit, my grip on the throw pillow I’ve pulled on my lap easing.

Rye swallows audibly. His long fingers tap an agitated rhythm on his thigh. “You going on a date with him?”

“I’m supposed to.” The reply is automatic and wooden; my brain is still having trouble catching up.

“Supposed to? Does that mean you are?”

I shake myself out of my Rye-induced fog. “Yes. I don’t know. I mean, we exchanged numbers so we could make plans, but…”

“But?” He slides just a bit closer.

“I wasn’t feeling it,” I confess without thinking. He stirs beside me, and I catch the faint scent of perfume, sweetly funky and over-the-top, emanating from him. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Montale’s Amber Musk. It’s never been a favorite. I really don’t like it now.

My nostrils flare, and I rear back, hitting the couch arm. “Wait, you were jealous? I must have been imagining things again, because I could have sworn you had some woman hanging on your arm when I left.”

He stills, confusion blanking his expression before he slowly smiles. “You noticed that, huh?”

“Oh, please. I wanted to say goodbye to everyone. How am I supposed to miss you cuddled up with the bohemian brunette?” One of a seemingly endless line of beautiful women who’ll gaze at Rye as if he is the answer to every hot sex question they’ve ever asked.

His smug smile grows. “And yet you didn’t come to say goodbye. You left.” He eases even closer. “Tell me, Bren, were you a wee bit jealous as well?”