“I want to. I’d like to.”
I have to choke it out, and the moment I do, I regret it: her eyes flare wide with alarm again. It’s the closest I’ve come to saying I like you out loud. Between Izzy and me, that phrase probably feels as significant as I love you would to any other couple.
“You want to have coffee with me?”
“Is that so strange?”
“Yes?” Izzy says, frown deepening. “A, you hate how I make coffee, you always say I get the milk-to-granule ratio wrong—”
“I would make the coffee. This is my apartment, clearly I will make the coffee. And we will use a cafetière.”
“Oh, of course we will,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s amused or irritated. “B, you go to great lengths never to spend more time than necessary with me every single day, so why would you want to keep me in your flat when you could get me out of it?”
“Because—it’s not like that now. I don’t do that anymore. Haven’t you noticed?”
“C,” she says, shoulders creeping higher, voice getting louder. “We have rules about this stuff.”
“Yes,” I say tightly. “We have rules. Of course.”
“Lucas, I can’t do this if you start—if you start being all nice to me and making me coffee and . . .” She swallows. “There’s a reason we have the rules.”
I cannot think of a single good reason for her fucking rules and I wish I could tell her that, but I can see in her panicked eyes that I’ll lose the tiny amount of Izzy I get as soon as I say those words out loud.
“You enjoy your coffee,” she says, yanking her jumper on. “I’m sure it will be very strong and manly with nary a drop of milk.”
I just stare at her. I have no idea what to say to that. She flushes.
“Maybe we should . . . stop this,” she says. “It’s so—we shouldn’t . . . I don’t think I can do this.”
“What? No. No, Izzy, wait,” I say, scrabbling out of bed, but she’s already slipping away towards the door, doing the awkward wave she does when she’s feeling flustered.
“I have to go,” she calls. “I’ll see you at work, OK?”
I stare at my bedroom wall as I hear the front door slam. Fuck. I knew this thing between us was fragile, but I didn’t realise I could break it with a single cup of coffee.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
By the afternoon, I have moved through panic, irritation, frustration, and despair. Now I have landed on resolution.
I have a plan.
We had been getting somewhere—she’d messaged me in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, and I’d held her as she dozed. Those are small acts of trust. But then I opened up about Camila, and it was too much too soon, and she fled.
If I’m going to change Izzy’s mind about the sort of man I am, I suspect I need to take a step backwards before I can move forward again. I need her to feel comfortable, and there is one dynamic that always works between us.
I finally track her down as I’m leaving the spa. She shoots past me in the corridor, avoiding my gaze, and panic rises through me again. I want to do what I did outside Opal Cottage: test her, move closer, seek out those signs that she still wants me. Instead, I let her go, and then, as she reaches the doors to the spa, I call over my shoulder, “Just so you know, I’ve almost found the last ring owner.”
This is an exaggeration. But I have spent two hours on the phone to lots of publicists about whether their clients lost a wedding ring, and various people said they would call me back.
Izzy stops short and swivels to stare at me. “You mean . . .”
“Goldilocks.”
I can understand her surprise: I have given this contest very little of my attention over the last week. But this morning, I got to work. I found the name I suspect Izzy found days ago—or rather, the fake name.
“You can’t have almost found her,” Izzy says. “I’ve spoken to everyone and nobody can tell me who she is.”
“Well, then. I hope you are practising your elf voice,” I say. I fold my arms, leaning against the wall of the corridor, watching her. “Poor Mandy always does such a good one.”
Izzy’s eyes spark. “Please,” she says, scathing. “You’re bluffing.”
I shrug. “OK,” I say, pushing off the wall and heading back towards the lobby.
“Wait,” she says. “Wait.” She glances around as I turn to face her again. “This morning,” she says tentatively. “When I . . .”