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“Actually, I still need to make that phone call,” I inform him, deeply regretting leaving my phone in the car thinking I’d only be here briefly.

“Nonsense. Any phone call you need to make can wait until after dinner. Wouldn’t want to eat cold food.”

“Your dad’s right, Brocky.” She clasps my hand in hers and all but drags me behind her to the dining room.Ugh. Neither of them is right. I’m already on thin ice with Abby Jane and ditching her tonight will probably send me through the ice and into the freezing water below.

The only upside to this shit-tastic evening is seeing my mom seated on the far side of the table, just to the right of where my father will sit at the head of the table. “Brock,” she coos, sounding frustrated and happy all at once.

I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her. “How are you?” I whisper in her ear, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she pulls back ever so slightly and studies my face before echoing the question back to me. “I’m okay, Mom. Promise.”

Ever the diplomat—even if sometimes, thanks to my dad, she’s more like a doormat—she gently addresses Amanda next. “Hello, so nice to see you. I trust your parents are well?”

Amanda takes the seat next to my mother and launches into a no-details-spared update of her parents. I claim the chair to the left of my father and across from the women, content to let Amanda ramble if it means I don’t have to engage.

Fortunately, Amanda and my father monopolize the conversation until our food is served and once our plates are placed before us, their chatter tapers off. Our meal consists of baked Cornish hen in a lemon butter and thyme sauce, served alongside roasted fingerling potatoes and crisp asparagus, but I can barely taste it because I’m so damn worried about things with Abby Jane. She’s probably going to cut off my testicles and force feed them to me.

Unfortunately, the meal’s over too soon and conversation picks right back up. “Amanda,” my father says. “Tell me, do you have any plans this weekend?”

She bats her lashes at him and my food churns in my gut. “No sir, I don’t.”

“Wonderful, because before you arrived, Brock was telling me how much he’d love to take you for dinner.”The fuck I was!The words are on the tip of my tongue, tasting like bile, but I swallow them down.

Amanda swings her bright blue gaze over to me. “You were?” She sounds breathless. I swear, if I could kill my dad right now, I would. I mean, not literally, but, you know.

I once again crack my neck, followed by my knuckles. Anything to buy myself some time to regain my innercomposure. “Absolutely,” I say through gritted teeth—so much for composure—even though I have no plans on following through. I’ll figure out some way to cancel later.

Hours after arriving, dinner is mercifully over, and I’m free to leave. Finally free to call Abs and beg her forgiveness. I walk Amanda to her car with the intention of canceling our plans, but my words seem to go in one ear and out the other. “Amanda, did you hear me?”

She sighs softly and places her hand on my chest. “I heard you, Brock. You’re too busy for dinner this weekend. But that’s plumb silly. We both have to eat. To save you some time, I’ll drive myself and meet you. Saturday, seven-thirty, at Thyme.” She rises to her tippy toes and presses her lips to my cheek before getting into her sparkly new Benz and driving away, not giving me another chance to rebuff her.

Why can’t this girl take no for an answer? And better yet, why is she so fucking obsessed with me?

CHAPTER 12

AJ

Even though Imanaged to get through most of the weekend and Monday without thinking about Brock, today he has been the only thing occupying my mind. My thoughts today have ranged from regret over how we left things to lust because he’s just so…something…so sexy and masculine and sure of himself. I’ve thought of telling him we should put our shit aside and just get through our sessions just as much as I’ve considered telling him we should casually hook up all the while, just to scratch the itch.

But now that I’ve been sitting here in the library for over half an hour working alone while waiting for him to show—all thoughts of forgiveness and reconciliation are long fucking gone. I’ve texted him no less than five times, my messages ranging from a simple “Where are you?” to “Are you okay?” to “I swear to God, you better have a good reason for not showing.” Yet all of them have gone unanswered. For a split second I worry that maybe he was in an accident or something, but I shake it off. I’m sure he’s fucking fine and just being a dick—hell, he's probably getting his dick wet for all I know.

Apparently, my time is worthless to him, and I should’ve trusted my gut instincts. He’s nothing more than a spoiled littleprick who thinks the world revolves around him. All he had to do was text me and let me know he couldn’t make it.

Or call. An email. A goddamn carrier pigeon. Anything. But nope. Not a word. He hasn’t bothered to do any of the following. Guess I know what I’m worth to him now. And as much as I hate to admit it…it kind of hurts.

I decide to call him before I pack up and leave. Straight to voicemail.Shocking.After the beep, I leave him a message telling him exactly how I feel. I tell him he’s a self-obsessed jackass, and that our tutoring sessions are as good as done and not to bother calling back.

The satisfaction of chewing out his voicemail only lasts about five minutes before the melancholy sets in, because if I’m being honest, Brock was starting to grow on me—like mold, but still. And truthfully, I enjoyed our bickering. I loved seeing glimpses of the boy I called my best friend for so long. But I made it the past eight years without him by my side, and I damn sure know I’ll make it now, too.

Angrily, I shove my shit into my bag and stomp out to my car. I sling my bag onto the passenger floorboard and sink down into the driver’s seat, relishing the way the worn leather feels against my skin. I crank the ignition and drive the few blocks back to my apartment, fighting tears the whole way.

Finally, once I’m safely inside, I let them fall. Fuck him. Fuck him for throwing me away all over again and fuck me for caring so much.

That last thought is sobering, and I steel my resolve. He doesn’t care about me? Then I don’t care about him. As childish and petty as that sounds, I really don’t care, because from here on out, I’m only looking out fornumero uno—me.

Buzz.Buuuuuzzzzz. Buzz.

The sound of my phone vibrating against my nightstand wakes me out of a dead sleep. I peel one eyelid open and check the time, shocked to see it’s only seven.Jesus!I don’t even remember falling asleep; I guess I passed out when I snuggled up in bed to read.

Even though it’s a perfectly acceptable time to text, I’m pissed that it woke me up. Obviously my body needed the sleep. I stretch and stand from the bed—whoever’s blowing up my phone can wait—and pad into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and a Nutella Uncrustable.