“Yes,” Faith said, so quietly that he read her answer on her lips rather than heard it. “I’m curious.”

“I recently broke up with someone I’d been seeing for several months. She was pressing for… more. And I couldn’t give it to her. Our last night together wasn’t pretty. She was upset and said some things that weren’t pleasant. But the only thing that stuck with me was her assertion that she was perfect for me. That we were compatible in every way and I was just too fucked up to see it.”

“Ouch.” But her eyes were hard, her mouth pursed with jealousy. She may tease him about his possessiveness, but she was equally so. Always had been. It had taken her months to believe he was really interested in her and several more months beyond that to convince her that while he wanted into her pants in the worst way, that wasn’t why he was dating her. Once she’d come to believe that the rich boy with the good looks, Aston Martin, and deftness with a football was really interested in a poor girl who worked a dirty job and was never part of the “in” crowd, she’d become a tigress. He was her man and anyone who forgot that was swiftly reminded.

He couldn’t wait to see her at a company party, her lithe legs in heels and a champagne flute in her hand. She’d have her arm around his and a look in her eyes that said, Yes, he’s my arm candy. Only I get to taste.

“She was right,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “There wasn’t anything wrong with her—aside from the fact she wasn’t you.”

Faith’s eyes were so dilated; the blue of her irises was a mere sliver around the black center. “Miguel, I…” Her voice trailed off, as if she didn’t know what to say.

“I came back to prove to myself that being with you couldn’t possibly be the way I remembered.” Lifting his beer bottle, he dipped the neck toward her in a toast. “And I was right. It’s better.”

He cursed his inability to read her thoughts. She looked shaken, but not overly pleased about his confession. He reminded himself that she’d dumped him—callously. Maybe being with him long term was something she still didn’t want. Maybe he was just a hot fuck.

“It was always good between us,” she said finally, pulling herself together and arranging wings on a plate before handing it to him.

“So what happened?” he asked, detesting the gruffness of his voice that gave too much away. It was time to be honest, but ripping himself open wasn’t how he wanted to manage this.

Wiping her hands with a napkin, she looked at him, her features soft and her eyes impossibly sad. “You were going to Princeton; I wasn’t. I knew a clean break was the only way you would go without me holding you back.”

Miguel froze from the inside out. His hand tightened with white-knuckled force on the bottle. With his gut churning with anger and confusion, he seized the one thing out of the mess of his emotions that mattered to him. “Did you love me?”

Her hands stilled. She looked at him with luminous eyes. “More than anything.”

“Bullshit.” He rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the ache that made it hard to breathe. “If that was true, you would’ve come with me. The fact is, you loved your family more. And this town, the shop—”

“I would have held you back even if I’d g-gone with you!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Your parents thought I was after your money. Hanging on to you would only have proven them right.”

“As if I gave a shit what they thought. They would have come around eventually, and it wouldn’t have mattered to me if they didn’t.”

“It mattered to me. You had years of college ahead of you—fraternities, sports, late night-studying… There was no place for me in that.”

He pushed the beer away, feeling sick. “I would have made a place for you. Or we could have agreed to a long-distance relationship. Phone calls, visits, holiday breaks.”

“All of which would have interrupted time with your father and curbed your freedom to network. You needed to create the contacts you could use in the future.”

“I hate to break it to you, mi querida,” he said coldly, “but I was fucking miserable all through college. I might have continued being miserable afterward, if I hadn’t become numb to everything.”

Faith inhaled sharply. A tear slid down her cheek, pissing him off. She had no right to cry over his pain, not when she’d caused it.

He turned, pushing out of the booth, unable to sit there and bleed over her tears, which he couldn’t bear.

“Miguel.” She stayed him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. We’ll go together.”

Catching her by the wrist, he yanked her toward him. “You once told me you’d love me forever. Was that a lie, too?”

“How can you ask me that, after tonight?” she whispered, tears streaming.

“Then, yes, we’ll go together.” He released her and stood. He dug into his pocket for his money clip and tossed cash on the table. “Back to New York. Where you should have been the last eleven years.”

She wiped at her wet cheeks with both hands. “I can’t.”

He shot her a scathing look. “What’s the excuse now? I’ve climbed the ladders I needed to. Now I’ve got everything I want, except for you.”

“It’s not you—”

“It’s me? You’re not seriously going to shovel that.”

“It’s— I…” She took another deep breath. “I have a son.”

The ground dropped out from beneath his feet. He swore the room tilted. The overly loud music pounded through his skull. He stumbled away from the booth, nearly toppling a waitress balancing a full-tray of food. Apologizing over his shoulder, he made his way outside, desperate for air in his burning lungs.

They spoke not a word on the ride back. The only concession Miguel made was to carry the to-go bag she’d taken the time to order before they left the restaurant and to hold the door open for her when they got back to the bungalow.

He went into the bedroom, his body taut with a tension that told her to give him some time alone. She went to the kitchen and began unpacking the food, her hands shaking from the raw pain she’d seen on his face. She had been half-afraid she wouldn’t find him waiting by the car when she exited the sports pub, but she’d known she would follow him if he called a cab.

This day of reckoning was long overdue.

Faith made two plates of steak and shrimp fajitas with all the fixin’s, then set them on the small round dining table. She began to eat, ravenous in a way only a stress-eater could be.

She was nearly done by the time Miguel reappeared. He entered the living area dressed in striped silk pajama bottoms and nothing else. There was a new bottle of cognac on the table behind the couch and he went to it, opening it and pouring himself a glass. He glanced at her in silent inquiry, but she shook her head.

Now that he was in front of her—the beautiful boy she’d loved now a formidably gorgeous man—she was struck by how much she stood to lose. There was nothing to be done about it, not with as disparate as their lives were. They’d eventually make each other miserable. Resentment would grow in whichever one of them was forced to give up their lifestyle and livelihood for the other.

He lifted the tulip-shaped glass of amber liquid to his lips and drank, his eyes closing with a weariness that broke her heart.

“I didn’t know you still cared,” she said softly, pushing her plate away. “I thought you’d get to New York, meet some gorgeous supermodel, and realize you’d dodged a bullet with me.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I don’t need to be insulted on top of everything else.”

“I wasn’t—” The look on his face made her recoil back into the chair.

“You martyred yourself for our love, but I’m so shallow any hot piece of ass would do?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She inhaled deeply, taking the hit because she deserved it. “I did it as much for me as for you. I did it for both of us, and no matter how pissed off you are—and I’m not saying you don’t have the right to be—I still believe I made the right decision.”