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I hit send, almost immediately groaning at my inane response. But it’s not as if I can just start begging him to take me back. If anything, I thought he’d never want to speak to me again.
Maybe he figures we should be on better terms now that we’re in-laws. We’ll both be at Serena and Archer’s wedding in a few weeks. It’ll be a small affair, so even more of a chance we’ll run into each other. Not that I’ve been looking forward to it for that very reason, staying up late every night working on Serena’s dress to make sure it’s absolutely perfect.
Connor:Would you want to come see how it turned out?
I’m frozen. Is he inviting me to see him? Or the apartment?
Me:I’d love to.
Connor:When are you available?
My shift ends at seven, but I’ll need to go back to Serena’s and change first.
Me:I can be there at eight. If that’s okay with you.
Connor:Sounds good.
I cover a hand over my mouth, hardly able to believe that just happened. I desperately want to ask if he’s willing to talk, if I can explain myself, but I’m afraid to push the line too much.
I finish the rest of the day, vacillating between bliss at the hope brewing in my heart, and utter panic that I’ll somehow screw everything up even worse.
What should I wear? What if he was only asking what time I’m available to make sure he’s not there? It’s Saturday, though. He shouldn’t be at work. Did he move in already?
Ugh, why am I torturing myself with these questions? I need to focus on getting the dress I’m working on finished. It’s a good thing I built up a fast pace for my Etsy shop because the expectations here are no joke. After I’m done with Serena’s dress, I should open my shop back up too. Every bit of extra money counts now if I’m going to get a new place for me and Mom. I don’t want to wear out my welcome with Serena and Archer.
At seven fifty-five, I’m at Bishop Tower, half-surprised my badge still works to access the building.
Looking at my reflection in the elevator doors, I arrange my hair carefully around my shoulders and smooth out my dress, then double check my teeth for anything stuck in them.
This doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’m just looking at the apartment I helped design. There’s a chance he’s not even there.
Tell that to the butterflies swirling like mad in my stomach, though.
I reach the sixtieth floor before I’m ready, hitching my purse higher on my shoulder as I momentarily debate whether I should go up through the private elevator or the stairs down the hall. I peek in his office, finding it empty, and tiptoe in. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.
Upon reaching the apartment, I quickly scan the open room, no sign of Connor anywhere. My stomach sinks, the butterfly wings fading. This is why I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
I set my purse on the foyer table, the metallic gold surface stunning. I’d loved this piece when picking it out with Hannah, and it’s even more beautiful in person.
Really, though, everything in here is amazing. The oversized rug in the living room is a statement piece in its own right, the pattern seeming to pick up every other hue in the room. The starburst chandelier in the dining room shines brightly over the polished table, the area much more intimate than it was previously.
I move over to the wide window, the gauzy curtains letting in the last of the day’s sun, painting the walls in a golden light. I already miss the view of Manhattan I’ve gotten used to and the hustle and bustle down below.
“What do you think?”
My heart jumps in my throat, mouth trembling for a moment before I firm it. I glance over my shoulder, finding him in the doorway leading to the back bedrooms. He’s barefoot, dressed casually in jeans and a navy t-shirt, the stubble on his jaw thicker than I’ve ever seen it before. “It’s amazing.”
I stare at him, knowing I shouldn’t even as I continue to do it. But he’s not looking away either, our gazes locked. My chest burns hot, both hope and shame twisting together.
“I miss you,” I whisper, unsure what else to say, how to keep the longing out of my voice, out of my heart. Did I really think I could come here and not spill my feelings?
He looks down, breaking the contact, and I swallow hard past the dryness in my throat, my cheeks flooding with heat. Even so, I don’t regret it. If he’s willing to meet me, he must be willing to hear me out.
“Want a tour?” he asks, not acknowledging my comment, but that’s okay. As long as we’re here speaking calmly, maybe we can have a rational conversation without anger in the way.
“I’d rather talk.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods, going over to sit on one of the new couches. I cautiously follow, the leather cool against my legs as I perch on the opposite end.