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I swallow. It’s not until this moment that I realize I want him. The thought of not going back to his apartment this evening is making me itch. Not because it’s gorgeous and the bed is far more comfortable than my own, but because I want to hear about Ben’s day. I want to eat his omelets and his chocolate chip cookies. I want to see him when he’s just come out of the shower and his hair is still wet and he’s bare chested. I want to lie in bed with him and hold hands.

I think back to those last few hours together. Waking up together. Making plans to do nothing. Talking. I believe our connection was real. But I’m not sure Ben knows that. This entire time I’ve been living with him, I’ve always—well, almost always—had my eye on the prize. I was staying with Ben because I wanted him to help me with the Boston site. I was using him to get what I wanted—independence from my siblings, an opportunity to prove that I’m no longer the helpless baby.

But using him just the same. That’s what he will see. That I’m just like everyone else.

My stomach twists at the idea that I’m just another person in New York who Ben knows, someone who wants him to do something for them.

Maybe I’m a fool, but it felt like more than that for me. And I think it felt like more than that for Ben. But will he admit that to himself?

I have no doubt that Ben’s going to deliver on the Boston hotel. He wouldn’t allow himself to let me down. When he does, it will be more proof that everyone, even the woman he woke up in bed with on Sunday morning, even a woman he’s into, wants something from him. Everyone’s using him. Just like he thinks.

Then he can dismiss me as being like all the rest.

He’s put himself in a position where people need something from him. He’s made sure he’ll never be that helpless ten-year-old again without a home. But at what cost? He doesn’t realize that it’s isolated him from the world. It puts him on an island on his own. He’s created a wall between himself and everyone else.

Me included.

I’m just like everyone else to him, and when the Boston hotel goes through, he can throw me off his island.

But I did get to visit for a while. I did get to feel the sand under my toes and the sun on my face. And I don’t want to leave.

TWENTY-NINE

Ben

Apart from being seated in a sports bar on West 38th Street, on paper, everything in my life looks good. I have my apartment back to myself. The meeting with Abigail Hart went better than could have been predicted. I sent the necessary details on the Boston site over to Avril, and business is booming.

I have late drinks tonight with one of my most important clients, and because of my dinner with Abigail on Sunday, I’m going to be able to give him good news.

“You look miserable,” Bray says, as he comes up behind me.

“Thanks,” I reply. “I got you a beer.”

“Actually, let’s ditch this place and go and get a good bottle of wine.”

“Really?” I say.

“Really,” he says. “No one wants a miserable face in a sports bar. It’s bad for business. And given I own this bar, I should know.”

“You own this bar?” I ask him. “Since when?”

“Set it up about five years ago.”

“What else don’t I know about you?”

Bray shoots me a smile. “You don’t know what you don’t know.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Come on,” he says, taking my beer bottle from my hand and placing it down on the table. “Let’s go mend your broken heart with a bottle of expensive red wine like I know you like.”

I ignore his comment about my heart being broken, because it’s ridiculous. “How do you know that I like expensive red wine?”

“By looking at your suit,” he says.

I glance at what he’s wearing—jeans and a blue button-down, just like always. “You never wear a suit.”

“Nope,” he says. “People underestimate you if you wear jeans everywhere. I like being underestimated. It takes the pressure off.”