Chapter 20
Iwas going to throw up.
Or pass out.
Or both.
I stood in my apartment, staring at my closet like it held the answers to questions I couldn’t articulate.
Is this a date?
No. Andrew said it wasn’t. “It’s a movie, not a marriage proposal.”
Then why did it feel like a date?
Because he kissed you, my brain helpfully supplied. Because professional boundaries were currently a suggestion at best.
“What do you wear to a not-date?” I said out loud.
“Clothes, generally.”
I jumped.
Angelica was sitting on my bed, textbook open in her lap, watching me with barely concealed amusement.
“How long have you been there?” I asked.
“Long enough to know you’re spiraling,” she said. “This is painful to watch.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’ve changed shirts three times.”
“I’m considering options.”
“You’re panicking.” She closed her textbook, set it aside. “So who is this person you’re definitely not going on a date with?”
“I didn’t say it was a date.”
“You didn’t have to.” She gestured at my closet. “People don’t try on half their wardrobe for a casual hangout.”
“It’s just a movie.”
“Uh-huh.” She tilted her head. “You should just date Andrew Knox.”
I froze, shirt halfway off the hanger.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Was I right?”
“It’s not—”
She was grinning now. “Huh. Didn’t have that on my bingo card.”
“Angelica.”
“Relax,” she said. “You know I’m not shocked you’re gay. I’m shocked he is.”
“Yeah. Well. It’s not a date,” I insisted.
“Does he know that?”
I pulled the navy button-down off the hanger, held it up like a shield.
“Too formal,” Angelica said immediately.
“It’s a button-down.”
“Too formal for a movie. You’ll look like you’re going to a parent-teacher conference.”
I put it back. Grabbed a T-shirt instead. Gray, fitted, simple.
“Too casual,” she said.
“You just said—”
“Not formal doesn’t mean you raided the laundry basket.”
“This is clean.”
“It’s a free T-shirt from a 5K you didn’t run. It has a stain on the collar.”
I looked down. She was right.
I threw it on the bed.
“What about this?” I held up a black henley.
Angelica considered it, head tilted. “Accidentally hot.”
“What?”
“You’ll look accidentally hot. Which might be good, depending on what you’re going for.”
“I’m not going for anything.”
“Sure. Just casually going to a movie with the professional hockey player you made out with—”
“What? I never said—”
“Matthew. You came home last Saturday looking like you’d been hit by a truck. A very good truck. You kept touching your lips.” She smiled. “I’m not stupid. And you’re a terrible liar.”
I wanted to argue. To tell her she was wrong, that this was all professional, that nothing had happened.
Instead, I pulled on the henley.
“So it’s the hot one,” Angelica said, satisfied.
“It’s practical.”
“It’s tight in all the right places. He’s going to lose his mind.”
“Angie.”
“What? I’m being supportive.” She stood, walked over, straightened my collar.
My throat tightened. “I know.”
“Good. Because Andrew Knox seems like kind of an asshole, but he also drove you across the city to my school. So he’s not the worst.”
“He’s. . . complicated.”
She patted my shoulder. “Just—be careful, okay?”
“You don’t have to worry about me like that.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at me seriously. “Because you get attached to people, Matthew. You give everything. And sometimes they don’t give it back.”
I thought about Ben. About all the ways I’d tried to hold something together that was already broken.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“You better be. Because if he hurts you, I’m going to key his fancy car.”
I almost laughed. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She grabbed her textbook. “Now go. And text me if you need an escape plan.”
My phone buzzed.
I looked at the screen.
Andrew: Downstairs.
“That him?” Angelica asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop stalling.” She pushed me toward the door. “Go. Have fun. Try not to overthink it.”
“I don’t overthink—”
“Matthew. You’ve been staring at shirts for twenty minutes. You overthink breathing.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I grabbed my jacket, my keys, my phone.
Stopped at the door.
“Angie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
She smiled. “Go get him, loser.”
The red sports car was idling at the curb.
Andrew was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift.
He wore a red T-shirt under a black leather jacket and dark jeans that fit him way too well.
His hair looked like he’d actually styled it—not the usual just-rolled-out-of-bed mess, but deliberately tousled.
And was that cologne? I could smell it from here, something cedar and expensive that made my brain short-circuit.
He’d dressed up.
Andrew Knox had dressed up.
For a movie.
With me.
Meanwhile, I’d tried on half my closet and settled on a henley and jeans because I thought we were just—what, hanging out? Two guys seeing a movie because Andrew had been stressed and needed to get out of the penthouse?
But he’d dressed up. He’d put on cologne. He’d done his hair.
What if Andrew thought this was a date and I’d shown up looking like I was going to a study group?
I opened the passenger door, slid in, trying to act normal.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
The car smelled like leather and that cologne, and I couldn’t breathe properly. The seats were low, the dashboard sleek, and everything felt too close, too intimate.
Andrew pulled into traffic without asking if I was ready.
I buckled my seatbelt and tried to breathe normally.
This is a date. Oh my god, this is a date.
But what if it wasn’t? What if I was reading too much into it and he just—what, always wore cologne? Always looked like he’d walked out of a magazine?
No. I’d seen him plenty of times now. Sweats and old T-shirts in the penthouse. Workout clothes. This was different. This was intentional.
Fuck.
“You think I’m going to crash it or something?” Andrew asked.
“What?”
“You look nervous, Quinn.”
“I’m not,” I said.
He glanced at me, smirked. “And if I’m the one who’s nervous?”
“Impossible. You’re never nervous.”
“But what if I was?”
I had to think about that one for a moment. “Then. . . good,” I said. “This was starting to feel unbalanced.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and gunned the engine.
We drove in silence for a few blocks. I stared out the window, hyper-aware of how close we were, how small the car felt, how his hand shifted on the gearshift every time he changed lanes.
How good he looked in that jacket. How I could smell his cologne every time he moved.
This was a date.
This was definitely a date.
“So,” I said, desperate for normal conversation. “What are we seeing?”
“A movie.”
“I know that. Which one?”
“Does it matter?”
“I—yes?”
He shrugged. “Whatever’s playing when we get there.”
“You didn’t check the schedule?”
“No.”
“What if nothing good is playing?”
“Then we see something bad.” He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.
I pulled out my phone and checked the theater’s website.
“There’s an action thing at 7:15,” I said. “And a drama at 7:30. Or—”
“We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“But—”
“Matthew.” He glanced at me. “It’s just a movie.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Ready?” he asked.
No. “Yeah.”
We got out. I closed my door, then stood there for a second trying to figure out the logistics.
Did I walk beside him? Behind him? What was the protocol here?
If this was a date, we’d walk together, right? Side by side. But if it wasn’t a date, walking side by side felt presumptuous.
But walking behind him felt weird too. Like I was his assistant. Which I was. But not right now. Right?
Fuck.
Andrew started toward the entrance. I followed a half-step behind, trying to find the right distance, the right position.
Then Andrew slowed. Adjusted his pace. Fell into step beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Side by side.
Close enough our shoulders almost brushed.
Oh my god, this is a date.
I kept my head down, hands in my pockets, trying to look invisible.
Andrew walked in like he owned the place.
People noticed. Of course they did. How could they not? A few heads turned, whispers starting, someone pulling out a phone. Andrew waved them off—not rude, just dismissive. Not now.
I followed him inside—no, wait, I was walking with him inside—through the lobby, past the concession stand. He bought tickets without asking what I wanted to see. I didn’t argue.
“We should go to the back,” I said when we entered the theater.
Andrew raised one scarred eyebrow. “Why?”
“Higher up is better for your neck. Less strain.” I was talking too fast. “I used to work on movies. Trust me, back rows are optimal.”
It was a lie. Well, half a lie. I had worked on movies. But that wasn’t why I suggested sitting in the back.
I wanted to sit in the back because fewer people would see us.
Andrew didn’t argue. Just shrugged. “If you say so.”
We climbed the stairs. The theater was half full, previews about to start. I scanned the empty row a few from the last, found two seats near the end, made sure there was an empty seat between us.
Space. Boundaries. Professional distance.
I sat down.
Andrew sat down.
Right next to me.
Not in the seat I’d left empty. The one directly beside me, close enough that his arm brushed mine when he settled in.
My brain short-circuited.
“You—there’s a seat—”
“Yeah.” He stretched his legs out, utterly relaxed. “You left it empty.”
“For space.”
“Don’t need it.”
I stared at him. He stared at the screen.
The lights dimmed.
Previews started.
I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. He was right there, solid and warm and taking up so much space that the boundaries I’d tried to create felt laughable.
The previews ended.
The movie started.
I hadn’t even asked what we were seeing. Hadn’t checked. Hadn’t cared.
The studio logo appeared on screen. Then the title card.
And then—
Benjamin Harroway’s face.
Close-up. Perfect jawline. Movie-star smile. The kind of face that sold magazines and filled theaters.
I stopped breathing.
Of all the movies. Of all the nights.
Benjamin fucking Harroway.
My ex.