“Hold on. We still need to get together to talk about the decorations for the fundraising event. Why don’t you come to my place tonight?”

Seriously. There is no way he can be this clueless. “I’m busy.”

“You can get your suitcase. I’ll even drive you back to your place after. We have to get this done. They’re expecting us to know what we’re doing and submit a budget proposal by the end of the week.”

I sigh, annoyed and defeated. Once this stupid project is over, I’m definitely telling him to fuck himself. “Fine. I’ll come over, but only because I want my damn suitcase back and so we can get this planning bullshit out of the way. I have a client in fifteen. I need to go.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you in the lobby at five.” His grin is so smug I want to punch it off his face.

“I have clients until six. I’ll meet you at your place.”

“It’s okay. I can wait.”

“Awesome.” I leave him in the staff lounge. And grumble my irritation that I’m still stuck dealing with him.

Bishop messages me early in the afternoon to verify that he’s coming to my place around seven. I let him know that I might be late because I have to take care of a couple of things. I’m nervous about seeing him after last night and what almost sort of happened. Less than a minute later I get another message from him with a bunch of annoyed-looking emojis, as if I’m doing him some kind of disservice by not being available whenever he wants me.

I send him a slew of GIFs basically telling him to shove his crown up his ass. I figure there is zero point in keeping it from him that I’ll be late because I have to get some stuff from Joey’s and we still have to deal with the freaking decorations for the gala. Also, he should be warned that I’ll likely be in a seriously bad mood, so if he thinks we’re going to rehash what happened last night, he is sorely mistaken. I firmly believe denial is the best plan. I leave my phone in my backpack for the remainder of the afternoon, not interested in dealing with Bishop’s entitlement, or his thoughts on friction, or Joey and his douchery.

My final appointment of the day ends up canceling, which means I’m done earlier than expected.

“Want to come with me and Jules to the pub? We can grab some apps and a drink?” Pattie threads her arm through mine. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her all day, since we’ve both been fully booked.

“I’d love to, but I have to deal with Joey.” We walk down the hall toward the lobby. My mood has been decent until now.

“I thought you did that last night.”

“There was an interruption.”

Her eyebrows rise. “A neighborly interruption?”

“Yuppers.” I stop short as we approach the front desk, which means Pattie also comes to an abrupt halt, since our arms are linked. “What the . . .”

Bishop is leaning on the front desk and talking to the receptionist, Bernice, who looks like her head is about to explode.

“Whoa. Who’s the hottie?” Pattie asks.

“That’s Bishop.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Wow. I’m used to seeing him with a furrowed brow and a lot of hockey gear.”

“I’m used to seeing him in his underwear.”

“I didn’t realize how lucky you were until now. That man is ridiculously hot.”

“Yeah.” And I was dry humping him last night while he almost cried in pain. I unhook my arm from Pattie’s and close the remaining distance, stopping a few feet away. “Uh, hey.”

Bernice is midsentence, probably telling Bishop all about her poodle, Duchess, based on the vacant look on his face. At the sound of my voice, his head snaps in my direction. His eyes drop all the way to my shoes and slowly rise to my face. “I’m guessing you didn’t get my message.”

“I’m guessing not. Pattie, this is Bishop; Bishop, this is my friend and colleague Pattie, who is also a physical therapist.”

They shake hands, and to Pattie’s credit, she plays it totally cool, but then her brothers play college football, which is almost like having a celebrity in your family.

I rummage around in my backpack in search of my phone. Of course it’s at the bottom of the bag, which makes things awkward, especially since I can feel Bishop staring at me while he and Pattie make small talk. “Want to give me the CliffsNotes version?”

“I’m taking you to the douche ex’s to get your suitcase.”

Pattie choke-coughs on a laugh.

I slap Bishop on the arm and look around for Joey, since he’s supposed to drive us to his place. Which was supposed to be our place. This should be super fun and awkward all the way around.

“I sent him home already,” Bishop says.

I don’t even need to look at his face to know he’s smirking.

“How are we getting to his place, then? I’m not taking the bus with you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they are. Bishop doesn’t need to keep travel costs down by taking public transit. Although for a few seconds I imagine what it would be like for him to have to jam his mammoth body into one of those tiny seats.

He holds up a set of keys. “I drove here.”

I snatch them out of his hand. “You should not be driving.”

“I made it here just fine.”

I prop a fist on my hip. “Have you even been cleared to drive?”

“I’ve been cleared for light workouts, so driving seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”

“Are you serious with this? One is in no way related to the other. At all. What if you had to react quickly? Or brake hard? You can’t even do a hip thrust without crying.”

“Untrue. I can do a hip thrust fine, just not with any weight on my thighs.”

I can feel my face turning red. I shoot him a warning glare. “No driving until you’re cleared, and I want that in writing, not words from your mouth. I won’t have you undoing all my hard work. The last thing I need is you reverting back to a super a-hole.”

“This is better than daytime soap operas,” Pattie says, reminding me that I’m chewing Bishop out in the middle of reception, and he’s grinning like I’ve told him I’m taking him for ice cream.

“You’re not helping,” I tell her, then give Bishop my attention again. “We should go before people start to recognize you.”

“I’m not high profile enough to get recognized around here,” Bishop argues.

And, of course, because the universe is on my side and clearly agrees with me, two clients come up to him and ask for autographs and photos. I offer to take the pictures, and I make him pose for at least twenty shots before I finally pass their phones back. I put on a sweatshirt and pull the hood up to hide behind before we leave. I also put on my gigantic aviator-style glasses.

“What’re you doing?” Bishop asks.

“Covering myself up in case people recognize you again and want to take more pictures.”

He flicks a loose lock of pale-blue hair. “You stand out way more than me.”

“Whatever. Let’s just go.”

Bishop is still on crutches and seems to enjoy shambling along at a snail’s pace. “Can you move faster?” I mutter from behind the safety of my hood.