Page 77 of Spring Break Fling

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I owe you an apology for earlier. That shitshow with Samantha… it wasn’t fair to you.”

“It’s fine,” I said, though it wasn’t really. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe, but I’m responsible for her actions.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Too bad everyone doesn’t feel that way,” he muttered.

“Is everything okay now?”

His jaw clenched before he looked away. “Not exactly.”

I tilted my head, studying him. I had a feeling I knew what this meant. “Nikko, did this cost you your job?”

He winced, which was all the confirmation I needed.

“Oh no,” I breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, though his voice was tight. “It’s not your fault.”

Still, guilt swirled in my chest. The ex seeing me couldn’t have helped.

“What was her problem?” I asked.

“Her boyfriend got picked up by the cops. She blames me. It’s not like I told him to break into the fucking shop.”

I nodded, understanding the issue. “She thinks you did it to get him out of the way. Like you were jealous of him.”

He visibly shuddered. “As if. That woman was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. I was happy to have her out of my life and I’d really love it if she would stay that way.”

I felt so bad for him. “I wish I could make it better,” I said softly.

I reached across the table to take his hand. I ran my thumb over his knuckles, noticing old scars from what I was sure was a scrappy youth.

He looked at me, fire flashing in his eyes. “You can.”

I blinked. “How?”

“Come home with me,” he said simply.

My heart stumbled over itself. I knew I should say no. I should draw a line, put some distance between us. In three days, I’d be on a plane, back to my carefully curated life. But when he looked at me like that—raw and vulnerable, like I was the one solid thing in his crumbling world—I couldn’t say no. And it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have one last time with him.

“Okay,” I said.

He grinned. “Lucky for you, I drove my car.”

“I think that means lucky for you.”

When we pulled into his driveway, the house was dark. No welcoming porch light, no soft glow from inside.

“Want a drink?” he asked, keys jingling as he unlocked the front door.

I nodded, following him inside. The living room was sparse—a leather couch, a coffee table with a few motorcycle magazines scattered across its surface. Nothing personal. Nothing that screamed home.

He poured two glasses of whiskey, neat. Handed me one without asking how I took it.

“So, this is what losing a job feels like.” He downed half his glass in one swallow.