I’m quick with the save. “Excited.”

She nods . . . and files it away in her adorable, unpredictable mind.

The three of us climb out of the cab back at Alexandra and Steven’s. I hold Mackenzie on my shoulder—she’s half asleep. Dee carries Mackenzie’s balloon and her bag and about a dozen small gift shop items I couldn’t not buy her. Alexandra lets us in, and Mackenzie perks up, trying to rub the weariness from her eyes. I set her on her feet, and she hugs us both, thanking us without being told.

Alexandra tells her, “There’s a package on your bed—it came while you were out. I think it’s the Elizabeth American Girl doll Grandma bought for your birthday, the one that was back-ordered.”

Mackenzie’s mouth forms a precious O, and she practically vibrates with excitement. “I been waiting for dat! I’m sooo horny!”

Then she scampers out of the foyer to her room.

Alexandra turns stormy eyes on Dee and me. “Care to explain that?”

I rub the back of my neck . . . and then completely throw Steven under the bus. “You should really talk to your husband. He needs to watch his language around Mackenzie.”

I’ll make it up to him, I swear.

Dee joins in. “Yeah. Kids are like sponges. They just suck up everything around them.”

From the look on Lexi’s face, she’s not buying it.

“We should go,” Delores tells me.

“Yes, we should.” I yawn. “The amphibians really wore me out. Bye, Lexi.”

“Bye, Alexandra,” Dee says.

Then we run.

Chapter 11

That night, I blow off clubbing with the guys. Dee and I order Chinese takeout and spend the evening fantastically f**king in every room of my apartment.

I’ll never look at my pool table the same way again.

We pass out in my bed, and I sleep the sleep of the exhausted damned . . . until the rustling of clothing and footsteps wakes me up in the middle of the night. I crack my eyes open to find Dee not next to me in the bed but bustling around the room, searching for her clothes and pulling them on hurriedly when she finds them.

“Dee? Are you all right?”

Her voice is wide awake and tense. “Yeah, I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Matthew.”

Bleary-eyed, I glance at the clock: 3 a.m. “What are you doin’?”

“I’m going home.”

I force myself to sit up, shaking the fog from my head. “Why?”

“Because that’s where I live, remember?”

I don’t know what bug crawled up her ass while I was sleeping, but I’m really too tired to argue with her. I throw the blankets off. “Okay. Jus’ give me a minute and I’ll drive you.”

Her eyes scan the floor, spotting her purse in the corner. “Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab.”

Sensing my time is short, I pull on a pair of sweatpants and grab a T-shirt that landed on the nightstand after it was ripped off of me earlier. “Then I’ll take the cab ride with you.”

Delores stops and pins me with a sharp frown. “It may come as a shock, but I am capable of getting myself home, thank you very much.”

“It’s three o’clock in the goddamn morning, Delores.”

She shrugs. “It’s not like you live in a bad neighborhood.”

“It’s Manhattan—any neighborhood could be a bad neighborhood.”

She doesn’t respond. And she doesn’t wait for me. I clutch my sneakers in my hand and barely remember to take my keys as I jog to keep up with her. Wide awake now, I slip into my shoes on the elevator.

“So, are you pissed off at me about something specific, or is this a more general ‘all men suck’ kind of thing?”

She folds her arms. “I’m not pissed off.”

Translation? You’re an ass**le, but you have to figure out why on your own, ’cause I’m not telling.

We walk out of the lobby. I wave the doorman off and hail a cab myself. The ride to Dee’s place is strained and silent. I sneak sideways glances at her—because the quickest way to get your throat ripped out is staring a skittish dog in the eye.

She sits stiffly—not exactly angry looking, but anxious—like a cornered animal waiting for the chance to bolt. When we pull up to her building, Dee is out of the cab before the driver comes to a complete stop. I ask him to wait for me, then I hop out after her.

As she slides her key into the locked outer door, I put my hand over hers. “Could you, please, give me a hint about what’s going on in your head right now? ’Cause I’m . . . kinda lost here, Dee.”

She stares hard at our hands, then she faces me with a sigh. “This is just . . . you’re moving way too fast for me.”

I lean my shoulder against her building. “If you wanted me to go slow, all you had to do was say so. Hard, easy, fast, slow—I always aim to please.”

“Don’t be cute, Matthew.”

Can’t help it.

She wiggles her hands, fanning herself—like she’s on the edge of a panic attack. “I woke up in your bed and . . . it’s just too much. I feel like I’m suffocating. I need . . . space.”

Space.

Right.

This is an exclusively female concept. For a man, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it just provides ample opportunity to find someone else he can stick his dick into. When a guy is really into a woman, he feels the same way about her as he does about Sunday football games—more is always preferable.