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“Wyatt? How did you get my number?”

“Is there an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a crazy stalker?”

“Not sure. I don’t remember giving it to you, so probably no.”

There's a pause.

Then he admits, “I asked Riley. At first she didn’t want to give it to me, but then she saw how desperate my case was.”

Desperate. Huh.

So I definitely shouldn’t feel flattered that he went out of his way to get my number. He was desperate. That’s all. No big deal.

If anything, I’m relieved.

Yes. Relieved. That’s definitely what this warm, fluttery feeling in my chest is.

“Why are you desperate?” Thank God my voice sounds a lot calmer than I feel.

Instead of answering, he asks, “Are you home?”

I straighten. “Why?”

“Because I'm outside your building.”

I stare at the phone. “What?”

“I'm sitting in my car. Outside your building.”

I walk to the window and pull the curtain aside.

He’s there. The Porsche, hazards blinking, parked half-illegally across two spots like even his car doesn’t know how to commit to a decision. He’s not getting out. He’s just sitting there, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead like a man rehearsing something he still hasn’t found the nerve to say.

“What the hell is going on, Wyatt? If you think getting my number is creepy, you don’t know how creepy it looks to have you parked in front of my building right now.”

“I know, I know. You’re right. Can you come down for a minute? I’ll explain.”

I blink.

I could ignore this. I could go back to my very healthy, very deliberate four days of distance and let him sit down there until he runs out of gas or dignity, whichever comes first.

I put on my shoes instead.

“I’ll be down in a sec,” I tell him and hang up.

The elevator takes a lifetime. I spend the whole ride telling myself this doesn’t mean anything, that I’m going down there strictly as a public service, the same way you’d flag down a stranger whose headlights are on.

He sees me coming and rolls the window down before I’m halfway across the lot.

He looks… nervous. And that’s a first for Wyatt. There’s no grin. No warm-up. His hair looks like he’s been dragging a hand through it for the last twenty minutes, which, given the state of it, tracks.

“Okay,” he says, like I’ve already asked a question. “Before you say anything—I know this looks insane. But I didn’t know who else to ask, so…”

“Ask what?”

“My sitter’s out sick—actually sick, not lying-about-it sick—and I fly to Toronto in under three hours, and I tried Jordan, and Cole, and Kai, and every single one of them said they didn’t know anyone who could help, and somehow I ended up here.”

I stare at him. “Wait.”