Over the next week, Andy found himself restlessly counting down to Memorial Day weekend — but not for the reasons he might have expected. The gala was looming just beyond it, and though he'd normally be strategizing his look, rehearsing his charm, and preparing to glide through the evening with dangerous precision, his mind kept drifting back to something much simpler.

  Summer. In his apartment. For days.

  It wasn't that he didn't want her there — he did, desperately. But that was the problem. The prospect of her seeing him, unfiltered and unpolished, in the quiet rhythms of his space, rattled something he didn't know he'd left unguarded. The chipped mug he always used. The way his books were organized by feeling rather than genre. The drawer full of half-used candles. The records he never played for anyone else.

  And what if she hated it? Or worse — what if it didn't feel like home to her?

  He tried to push it all down and threw himself into work. If ever there were a time to be a perfect distraction, it was now.

  Andy booked extra appointments, pulling on his most decadent outfits and slipping back into the persona that once felt effortless — confident, commanding, endlessly attentive. He flattered and flirted, danced his fingertips across silk sheets and whispered secrets that made clients tremble. He reminded himself that this was who he was. This was his craft. And he was good at it.

  But even in the quiet moments, brushing long hair off a shoulder or drawing laughter from a client with a wicked joke, he kept wondering what Summer would think of the way his shower curtain didn't quite match his tile. Or if she'd like the slightly squeaky floorboard near his bed.

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  By Wednesday, he found himself rearranging his apartment three times. Just in case.

  * * *

  Andy had offered — of course he had. Multiple times. A dozen different sweet and teasing variations of "I'll come get you," until Summer had finally, firmly, said no.

  Truth be told, he loved when she drew a line. The tone in her voice had been unmistakable: She was driving. It wasn’t that far, and she'd made it clear that letting her come to him was part of the gift.

  Friday afternoon dragged like wet silk. He'd vacuumed, dusted, and made the bed with almost comical precision. He'd already triple-checked the guest towels, fluffed the stupid throw pillows on the couch, and stared too long at the bookcase. The moon-and-stars mug sat proudly on the kitchen counter, beside a box of the fancy hot chocolate he'd driven across town to get.

  And still he paced.

  His phone stayed in his hand, even though she wasn't due for another half hour. He checked the time anyway. Then checked again. Then wandered into the kitchen and stared at the fridge, as if it might offer advice.

  She was coming to stay at his place.

  Somehow, that was more intimate than anything else they'd done. She'd slept tangled with him a dozen times, teased him until he was breathless, looked up at him like he'd hung the stars — and still, this felt different. She was going to open his bathroom drawer and see his ridiculous skincare. She'd see the chaotic state of his spice rack. She might even see the ancient sweatshirt he refused to throw out, tucked under the bed.

  And he wanted her to. Every bit of it.

  He paced again.

  He passed the bookcase for the sixth time, straightened the blanket even though it didn't need it, then stopped and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't want to look too eager.

  But he was eager. He'd never had someone come to him like this. Summer's arrival wasn't just a weekend getaway — it was a declaration. That she wanted to be in his world, in his space. That she trusted it.

  He glanced down at himself — black jeans, gauzy shirt, no shoes.

  He looked like he was trying, but not trying too hard.

  Still pacing, he checked the window again. No sign of the coupe yet.

  "God help me," he muttered to no one in particular. "I'm going to marry her."