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“Too old?” Her voice rose. Oh dear, I was in for it now. “Too old for a prestigious program? Darling, I was older when I got my Ph.D., and look at me now.”
“Yes, look at you. You’re an inspiration, Mama. But I’ve never been that sold on academia.”
“Then look over the law school links I sent.” As usual, she wasn’t going to give up easily. “Someone with your smarts and background could make a killing in international law.”
I made a pained noise. Killing. I’d seen enough of that. “No killing, no law school. Stop pushing.”
“I’m just trying to help you heal. You need away from those military types. A fresh challenge is precisely what the doctor ordered.”
No, it wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to convince her. “I have PTSD, Mama. Not an allergy or boredom. PTSD won’t magically disappear if I return to school.”
“You never know. Getting my degree was the best thing I ever did. And I do know trauma. Being mentally stimulated and surrounded by like minds let me recover.”
“I know.” Her story was such an inspiration that organizations fought over the chance to have her come tell it. Escaping an abusive marriage with only me and her wits and rising to an expert in her field. She was a legend. But her story wasn’t my story. “And you only want me happy. I get it. Can we table this discussion though? Please?”
“All right, dearest. All right. I love you, and I love my flowers. Such a pretty vase. I’ll pack it carefully for my return to DC. I’ll want to save it.”
“You do that.” I softened my tone considerably. “Put something pretty in it next time I visit?”
“Soon?” Her voice perked back up.
“Mama…”
“I know, I know. I’ll let you go, darling. It’s late there, I’m sure. And you have work tomorrow.”
Work. Shit. How was I supposed to face Avery tomorrow? Act like everything was normal? I’d told him this was no big deal, but I’d so lied.
Chapter Seven
Avery
My lack of a hangover was a massive disappointment. I’d never wanted more to wake up with a full head, churning stomach, and wobbly joints. But no, I started the day after Valentine’s wide awake, ravenous, and without a single sign of overindulgence the night before. In fact, I had more energy than usual, bouncing on my feet in the A-List break room while I considered snack options from the basket on the counter. Nope, there was no blaming the night before on drinking.
I’d fucked up on so many levels. Blew a coworker. Blew a guy. Was a dick about it, not because I hated or regretted it, but because I loved it. I loved every second of Malik’s dirty instructions and filthy praise. Loved my aching jaw, calm brain, and singular purpose. For a second, coming when he did had felt like the biggest jackpot, but then embarrassment—and if I was totally honest, shame—had come rushing in, spoiling everything. I’d come in my pants like some total newbie, made all the worse by Malik’s casual acceptance and kindness.
Hell, apparently, the dude had been planning on blowing me next, which might have been enough to get me hard again, except for that fucker shame. I was straight. I wasn’t supposed to go around offering to blow other straight guys, definitely wasn’t supposed to enjoy it so much, and absolutely wasn’t supposed to be having an entire existential crisis before noon.
I was straight. Period. End of story. Except I couldn’t stop replaying the experience in my head, every detail vivid and visceral. Hell, even the scent of someone’s spicy lunch had me right back at the restaurant, feeling light and bubbly and—
“Hey. We should talk.” Malik reached around me to grab a plate from the microwave. Oh heck. I should have known. And whatever his rice dish was, it smelled almost as good as he looked. Movie shoot done, we were both in the office for paperwork and other boring tasks, and he’d taken advantage of not needing to wear the company shirt in favor of a fuzzy sweatshirt that looked super cuddly. Which I didn’t need to be thinking about. And we definitely did not need to talk. Talking meant confronting my embarrassment all over again.
“Um, hey.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot, fighting the urge to flee. “We…uh…no need. We’re cool.”
“Really?” Malik raised a dark eyebrow. “That wasn’t you slinking off into the dark last night?”
“Sorry.” Damn it. Confronting my stupidity was painful. My stomach clenched right along with my fist.
“No, listen. I’m the one who is sorry. I was thinking, and maybe I pressured you, or you were drunker than I thought, and if so, I’m sorry. There’s no excuse, but—”
Oh God. The only thing worse than knowing what an idiot I’d been was Malik blaming himself. “I wasn’t wasted, promise. No trace of a hangover even. And you didn’t pressure me. It’s not your fault.”
