DANTE
I’d been pacing for twenty minutes.
Back and forth across the bedroom, wearing a path into the carpet, still in my briefs, rehearsing words that refused to form.
“I’m sorry for calling you a liability.”
No. Too direct.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
Worse. I had meant it. Apologizing for something I’d meant would make me a liar on top of being an asshole.
“You’re not a liability. You’re—”
What? Essential? Valuable? The one person who’d managed to get under my skin in ways I couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine?
I dragged both hands down my face, frustrated beyond reason.
Why was this so difficult? I’d handled far more complex negotiations. Taken down competitors twice my size. But stringing together a simple apology to one woman who’d cleaned my bloody knuckles and fed me
