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“Your website.”
“Oh. Right.”
A taut silence fell between us. “You called me,” I pointed out.
“I’m downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re not done talking.”
“You seemed pretty done when you marched out of here without a word,” I said. It wasn’t an accusation. I’d expected it. Actually, I’d expected nothing because I never thought I’d see him again.
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“Let me up and I’ll explain.” When I didn’t reply, he sighed. “Please, Brooklyn.”
It was the raspypleasethat did it, and it wasn’t begging. He was asking in a way that sounded sincere, even though I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“All right. I’ll come down and let you in through the back door.”
I hung up and grabbed my keys. I left the apartment and headed downstairs to the alleyway. With a deep breath, I unlocked the back door and pushed it open.
Slash stood at the threshold, but he took up so much space I quickly stepped back. He scrutinized my face. “You were asleep.”
I frowned. “How did—?”
“The hair.” He smiled.
My hand immediately went to my lopsided ponytail.
He shut the door behind him and followed me up the stairs into the tiny apartment.
He seemed to fill up the entire room, and suddenly I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Tea?” I croaked, needing something—anything—to do to distract myself from the fact that the father of my child was standing in my living room.
“Sure.” He wandered over to the coffee table and picked up the top book from the stack. He flipped it over, scanned it for a few seconds, and then put it back.
“Chamomile? Peppermint? Orange spice?” I asked.
“Orange spice.” He flexed his hands and then clenched them into fists. His gaze landed on the black-and-white photo over the TV. “Who’s that?”
“My father.”
“And he’s gone?”
“Yeah. About two years ago.”
“Sorry,” he said quietly. “For your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mom?”
“Slash,” I warned.
