“And now?” she asks.

“Now she seems like the best person there.”

“Have you two . . .” she starts, letting the question hang in the space between us while she practices her breathing exercises.

“I mean . . . almost? There was some under-the-clothes touching to completion, if you know what I’m saying.”

She snickers. “And it was good?”

Fuck. “Yeah.”

“I’m assuming you’d definitely like to do it again.”

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on something wholesome?” I ask.

“How can I be expected to focus when there’s all this forbidden love and pining going on?”

“You can focus because at this point I fear there’s a better chance of me touching to completion with any one of these ladies”—I say, motioning to the pregnant women around us—“than there is with Evie.”

“Why? Because of the job? That feels like a detail to me.”

“It’s a pretty big detail, though. We’re both married to our jobs. Jobs that may not even be around in three months. Not to mention we have this retreat thing in Big Bear coming up. I want to be around her, but we always fight. I really don’t want us to end up stabbing each other. She’s too bossy for prison and I have a hard time saying no.”

“Okay, so big question here,” Avya says. “Would you be with her if there were no job or anything else on the line?”

“That’s a pretty fucking big if, Avya.”

“You didn’t answer the question, Carter.”

“Would I be with Evie if there was nothing else in the way? Probably.” I scratch my jaw, wincing at this cop-out. “No, not ‘probably.’ For sure I would.”

“So fix it.”

“Oh my God, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Carter, women are not that complicated,” Avya says, half turning and smiling back at me. “Smarter? Yes. Complicated? Not really. We want progress, not perfection.”

• • •

That night at my parents’ house, I think about what Avya said.

Progress, not perfection.

I don’t have to be perfect; I don’t necessarily even have to fix everything with Evie, but I can at least own up to the things I did that even I’m not okay with. I can try to be a little less terrible.

Reaching across the bed, I find my phone where it’s charging on the table. I scroll through the conversations until I find the one labeled Evil and open it.

I do the time zone math in my head; just after ten here, just after seven there. Definitely not too late.

Hey.

I hold my breath, staring at the phone and hoping to see the little dots indicating she’s typing. Just when I let out a long exhale and start to put my phone down, the bubble pops up. My heart bounces into my throat.

Hey, you.

Here goes. Time to get it all out there.

I feel like I need to go back a bit.

Starting with: I should have called you to talk about Dan Printz first.

I should have told you your shirt was unbuttoned. I should have ASKED you about Jonah doing the shoot.

Have you been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past?

Something like that.

Well, thanks.

No problem.

I can’t apologize for the glitter though.

The glitter was pretty great.

And honestly, I’m sorry, too.

But not for the onion.

You’re forgiven.

The onion was terrible/genius.

The mixing room, however, was enjoyable.

Will she appreciate my understating the obvious? Will she agree? Another minute goes by. My heart is basically inside my mouth, in my eyes, pounding my head off. Finally, my phone vibrates again.

You can say that again.

I exhale and roll into my pillow. Thank God.

Are you in New York?

Yeah. What are you up to?

I had dinner with Daryl and have to finish up my expense reports before I go to Burbank tomorrow.

Expense reports over the holiday?

Hiss.

I know, but I think I’m the only one they’re waiting on to finish up the audit.

What is it they think they’re going to find? The vodka I expensed after dealing with Brad?

I bet that’s a whole lot of vodka.

Well, by the case makes it cheaper at least.

You’ll see Michael and Steph while you’re there?

They usually stay with Steph’s parents, so yeah.

Is it weird that I’m excited to get together with them out here?

Like, we live in the same city.

It makes no sense.

It’s because you miss partying at Areola.

I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, having forgotten I’d told her about that. Are we flirting? Is that what that is? She’s bringing up our past conversations and I’m being . . . what?—charmed by it? Think of something clever, Carter.

Noted.

Nailed it.

Can you do me a dumb favor?

I live for dumb favors.

If you do something outdoorsy, can you take a picture of the snow?

That’s not really that dumb.

I’m disappointed.

California Christmas not doing it for you?

Maybe . . .

How’s this, I’ll make a snow angel and even write your name next to it.

As long as it’s not in yellow.

In yellow?

You’ll get there.

Wait for it . . .

Oh. OH.

Bazinga.

You’re broken.

I think you like it.

Goodnight, Carter.

Night, Evie.

chapter twenty-one

evie

My first morning back to work after the holidays, I am a mess of nerves. It’s impossible to keep my calm, reasonable voice in my head because it’s basically closed up shop for the winter.

Carter walks into work in what my stalker tendencies tell me is a new outfit, and looks . . . breathtaking. His pants are charcoal gray and slim cut, stopping just at his ankles and exposing a little flash of some exuberant socks. Are guys taking over the ankle flirtation game? I am here for it. His shirt is a cool purple print, and in general he just looks way too hip, even for an office full of Hollywood power players.

I’m standing in the doorway to the break room, watching his path from the elevators in total awe, but my world trips when he stops at my office and tentatively peeks in.

Obviously, I’m not there. I call out to him, my heart dropping somewhere in the vicinity of my vagina when he turns toward my voice and smiles.