Page 68 of Cherry Picking

EVIE

There’s a knock that comes just a few minutes after I’ve locked the front door. My first thought is that Grant forgot something, or worse, that he’s circled back to renegotiate the cheek kiss.

For all intents and purposes, it was a good date. We got along well. He paid for a nice meal at my favorite Mediterranean place. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve invited him inside. But Hazel was right; I need to be honest with myself about what’s going on here.

I’m not over what happened with Briggs. It was one spur-of-the-moment hookup, sure, but I can’t stomach being discarded like that. If Grant’s at the door now, I’ll have to explain it all to him. Right here, right now.

I had planned to do it sometime when it wouldn’t ruin a nice evening—some kinder week, over coffee, when the wound’s got a scab on it.

But when I check the peephole, I find the wound himself standing on my doormat.

He’s in a suit, tie gone, collar open. I’ve seen Briggs dressed like this on TV before, doing press at a podium after games, but it didn’t quite prepare me for the in-person version. The camera flattens him. It misses the sheer size of the man against my little entryway.

I put my forehead against the door and take one deep breath. Then I open it and cross my arms, waiting for him to explain himself.

“Hey,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a hopeful, undeserving smile.

I roll my eyes.

“You look pretty.” His gaze does a lap and comes back up. “How was your date?”

My stomach drops. “You saw that.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh, like you give a shit.”

“I do.” He shifts his weight. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

The nerve of it lands somewhere between fury and a small flutter in the pit of my stomach, and I hate that he can still garner the latter.

“That’s funny,” I mutter. “Thought you were gonna be heads down for a while.”

He takes the hit without flinching. “I fucked up.”

That’s not what I thought he was going to say. I had a whole speech loaded for the deflecting version of him, and now it’s useless.

“Go on, then.”

“I’m sorry for leaving like that. I hate knowing you’re pissed at me. I hate not being able to text you throughout the day. And I—” His jaw works. “I fucking hate that you went out with another guy tonight.”

“What did you expect me to do?” It comes out louder than I planned, and I don’t care. “Sit here and pine over you? I knew your ego was inflated, but that’s a brand-new level of delusional.”

“No. It’s—” He looks down the walkway, then back. “Can I come in?”

I make him wait for it. Ten drawn-out seconds while the January cold pours past him into my apartment. “Five minutes,” I say.

He steps inside. I shut the door and shrug out of my jacket, hanging it on the hook. I’m still wearing a dress underneath, a fitted black one with a square neckline and about a dozen pieces of vintage silver.

His eyes rake over my entire body. When my gaze narrows, his throat bobs.

“Eyes up, Maxwell. You’re on a timer.”

“I’m messed up over some shit tonight,” he says, “and you’re the first person I wanted to come see. I know I shouldn’t have run with my tail tucked after we hooked up. That was fucked.”

“Embarrassing, really.”

He frowns. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”