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I took a step closer. "Do you really think this weekend was about a piece of paper?"

Her gaze snapped to mine. "No, I⁠—"

"Do you think I kissed you because of a contract?"

“No.”

“Do you think I told you I loved you because of a contract?”

Moisture began filling her lower lids. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

She looked down. Not meeting my eyes. And I hated it. I hated that she couldn't look at me.

"I can’t do this," she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

My chest tightened. "You’re sorry.”

"If I led you on."

I went completely still.

She swallowed. "I know I crossed a line. We crossed a line. And I shouldn't have let things go as far as they did."

"Let things?"

"Damon, please."

"No, I'm trying to understand." I shook my head. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're apologizing for something I wouldn't trade for anything."

Her eyes lifted to mine. For one brief second, I saw it. The same thing I'd seen when she'd kissed me. When she'd laughed at something stupid I'd said. When she'd looked at me like maybe, just maybe, I was someone worth staying for.

Then it disappeared.

"I really enjoyed the weekend, but⁠—”

“Don’t,” I stopped her. I couldn’t let her tell me that this weekend was nice, but it meant nothing.

The nights we'd spent talking meant nothing. The way she fit against me was some kind of cosmic clerical error. That the intimacy we shared was nothing.

I could've argued. I wanted to. I could've told her that I was madly, completely in love with her. Again. I could've told her that waking up with her not beside me had made me feel physically ill. I could've told her I'd run ten miles that morning because I couldn't stand the thought of watching her leave. I could've told her that seeing her car still at the ranch had made me happier than I’d ever felt in my life.

Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.

"Is that really what you want? To pretend this weekend didn’t happen?"

She sucked in a breath. "Damon."

"I’m not talking about what makes sense, or what you think you should do. What do you want, Mikayla?"

She looked at me for a long moment. Long enough for me to start hoping again. Then she whispered, "I just want to take care of my mom."

I nodded slowly. "That's not what I asked."

"I know."

And that was my answer. Or as close to one as she was willing to give me.