Page 121 of Silver Sweet

It can’t be him.

There are about a thousand other possibilities. Maybe Harriet lost her key. Yeah, yeah. That’s it. I’m settled on seeing the five-foot-one blonde demon when I swing open the door to meet the brown-blue eyes of not Harriet.

Definitelynot Harriet.

Phoenix taps his foot, readjusts his backpack, and shifts his helmet to his other hand in a wave of impatience that crashes into me. When our eyes meet, the shared breath we take feels more asphyxiating than life-giving. Our partnership shouldn’t alter into a different shape—not when it’s been so effective—but in this second, I sense the deep change.

“You letting me in?” Phoenix asks.

The lack of “nepo baby” makes me uneasy. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Like five seconds.”

“I’ve been waiting over an hour, dude.” It suddenly occurs to me he could’ve wrecked his Suzuki. My heart palpitates. “Are you okay?” I sweep him for any cuts or bruises. He’s already unzipped his motorcycle jacket. The plain black shirt underneath melds to his abs. I can’t see any visible rips in the fabric. His gray cargo pants aren’t scuffed with dirt or asphalt, and his boots are laced to his ankles.

He frowns at me. “I’m fine. I just got held up in traffic.” Off my next silent beat, he adds, “It’s morningrush hour. Ever been in it? Lots of honking. Slamming on brakes. Right outside your million-dollar apartment.”

“Multimillion,” I correct.

His narrowed eyes perform a partial roll. I open my mouth, then close it even faster, not wanting to sound whiny. I’m verbally and physically stalling out.

Phoenix presses a hand against the doorframe, his tense body inches from mine. “Let me in,” he says, deep and husky. His gaze drives so far into me that I know he’s not just referring to letting him inside my apartment.

I think he can tell I’m ankle-deep in a quicksand of anxieties.

“I get you were in traffic. But why haven’t you responded toanyof my texts?” I ask him. “A simple,I’m on my way, Tom,would’ve worked fine. Unless you were purposefully being an ass.” I could blame this on him, but I need to take responsibility for what happened. “Because maybe I said or did something irreparable?—”

“You didn’t,” he interjects. His frown darkens, and he shoves a hand into his cargo pocket. He presses his thumb against the black screen of his phone and tries to turn it on.

His phone is dead.

His phone is dead.

Why the fuck didn’t I think about that?! Of course, that was one of the hundreds of possibilities, but it never occurred to me because it’s too simple. Too easy. Why do I jump to the most dramatic conclusion?

Phoenix blows out a hard breath. “Can you at least be happy I wasn’t screening your calls? Why do you still look like I’m about to piss on your doormat?”

“I’m horrified at myself. Not at you, dude.” I swing open the door wider and let him into the apartment. I rummage in a kitchen drawer, then hand Phoenix a charging cable.

He’s only focused on me when he takes it. “What’d you do that’s so horrific?”

“Don’t listen to the voice memo I sent—or better yet, I’ll delete it from my end.” I snatch my phone off the counter.

“Just play it,” Phoenix nods me on.

“You want to hear me cursing you out a billion times? Oh, I even curse out your dog.”

“Don’t have a dog.”

“Yourfuturedog.”

Phoenix lets out a laugh. “Wow, you really struck me deep. I feel so affronted. I might just block you on Instagram.”

“You don’t have Instagram,” I point out.

He raises his brows. “I do since three hours ago.” He’s not excited. “Jere said the label kept asking why I have no social media presence, and they want me to have something ready while they work on the press kit.”

Instead of opening my text messages, I pop open Instagram. “What’s your username?”