Sugar

“I’m sorry, Micah. I just thought—”

“No need to apologize. It was an honest mistake. Enjoy your day, love.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

How embarrassing. I should have identified the sender before assuming. Now, Micah… Ugh. I lowered my phone and stared at the card.

* * *

Dinner tonight.

This time open the door.

~Noah

* * *

I wasn’t going.

Of course, I wasn’t going.

This was crazy. Noah’s persistence had very little to do with me, and everything to do with not getting what he wanted when he wanted it.

He left a phone number on the card, so I texted him because, yes, I was too chicken to call.

* * *

Thank you for the flowers.

* * *

I hit send, sat my phone on the table, and stared at it, waiting for a response. My heart jerked the second the screen flashed.

* * *

You’re welcome. We’re going out tonight. Be ready.

* * *

Ready for what? It didn’t matter. I texted him back.

* * *

I appreciate the invitation, but I can’t. I have plans.

* * *

Cancel them.

* * *

I scowled at the phone. This was the problem with arrogant men. They constantly wanted their way, and they didn’t bend easily. Every ego had a price, and I was tired of paying it.

The men in my life who wanted to tell me where to be and how to dress also understood the expectation of paying me handsomely for every demand I let them get away with. They were jobs, and I didn’t want Noah to be a job. I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to be. Everything was getting messed up.

I couldn’t let him bark out orders and assume I owed him anything. That wasn’t how real relationships worked—not that we were in one—especially the sort of relationship I gravitated toward.

* * *

No. I wouldn’t ask you to call out of work, so don’t ask me to miss an appointment. Thank you for the flowers.

* * *

That was all I intended to say, and while the flowers were lovely, they changed nothing. End of story.

He texted a few more times, but once I stopped responding, he gave up. So long as we had to continue living across from each other, we had to figure out a way to be civil and respect each other’s boundaries. But part of me feared the short friendship we found would get destroyed in the process of building necessary walls.

That night I met with Josh, and the next evening was Christopher. Micah had kept his word and sent a beautiful Louis Vuitton bag to my apartment. It was gorgeous and smelled of fine leather, but I hardly enjoyed it.

Carefully keeping the custom wrapping intact, I took a few pictures and uploaded them to the auction site. Regardless, it was an incredible gift, and I graciously thanked him.

He took me out to dinner on Thursday, to celebrate the end of the semester. It was a lovely evening full of champagne and oysters and chocolate desserts that were rich enough to make any woman’s toes curl.

“Thank you for tonight, Micah.”

“It was my pleasure.” He walked me to my door and smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ll be graduating soon.”

I couldn’t hide the pride that bloomed in my chest at the thought. “Can you believe it?”

“Yes. I always knew you’d succeed. There’s something special about you, Avery. Something that doesn’t know how to walk away without a fight.”

I thought of the various people I met through Micah, the social circles he introduced me to. Every ounce of class I owned resulted from our association and his gentle guidance. “I never would have made it this far without your help.”

“Nonsense. There’s always a way.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “Get some sleep. It’s a school night.”

“Goodnight.”

Once I had the door locked behind me, I heard his steps drift away. I refused to accept money for tonight, and that actually made me happier than getting paid.

Micah was crossing into tricky territory. I didn’t want to let him go. He was my mentor, and I liked having him in the background of my life. I think he sensed my fear that we would soon part ways and, for his own reasons, objected to not paying me.

Maybe in his mind, the money guaranteed my time. Money secured our association, sure. But so did our friendship, I hoped.

A soft knock sounded, and I peeked through the peephole, not prepared for the ragged face on the other side.

“Oh, my God.”

I pulled open the door, and Noah looked at me from under low brows and glassy eyes.

“Your doorknob does work.”

“What happened to you?” He looked like death, pallid skin wearing a glaze of pasty sweat, clothed in too many layers for the temperature of the building, bloodshot eyes, and his blonde hair shooting every which way.

“I’m fine.”

He was not fine. “Are you sick?”