I want this.

But instead, as he gets my jeans somewhere around my knees, I shove him away and pull them up. “Stop, Brett. I had a shitty night at work and I’m way too tired for this.”

A drunken smile tugs at his lips. “Excellent. We haven’t played this one in a while.” He pins me against the door again and kisses me hard.

I cringe thinking of all our sex games when we first got together . . . his favorite of which was the “reluctant virgin.” I hate myself for ever thinking that was fun.

His hand massages my breast as he nips at my ear. “You’re so fresh, baby. So young. You feel so fucking amazing,” he slurs, starting his role-play.

“Stop, Brett,” I say, shoving him away again. “It’s not a game. I’m just not into it tonight.”

He pulls away and scans me with hooded eyes. “You’re serious.” He grabs himself as his eyes narrow into a glare. “After a month, you’re going to leave me standing here like this.”

A stone sinks in my stomach. But I can’t do it. The thought of sex with Brett makes me physically ill. “I don’t think this is working anymore, Brett.”

He pushes back from the door, his glare sharpening at my words. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“I . . . I’m moving out. As soon as I find a place.”

His face twists. “Fuck that! If you’re moving out, you’re doing it now. You can take your sorry ass and sleep on the street for all I care.” He spins a circle and throws his arms up when he swings around to face me again. “Do you have any clue how many girls I could have fucked on tour, Hilary? Do you? It was a lot. Every night. But you know what? I didn’t do it.” He turns and drops onto the couch. “This is just fucking unbelievable. You breaking up with me,” he adds with a bitter laugh. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“I’m sorry, Brett. I just—”

“Get the fuck out!”

I start to move toward the bedroom for my clothes, but he whips out of the couch and charges me, pushing me hard into the door.

“I said, get the fuck out! Now!”

I scoop my jacket off the floor and pull the door open. When I turn back from the hall, it slams in my face.

“Shit,” I say to the peephole. I turn for the elevator and stumble onto the sidewalk without a clue where I’m going. When I somehow end up on Broadway, I dig for my MetroCard and jump on at Seventy-ninth. I just need to be somewhere else. Jupiter sounds good. I drop into an open seat and fold myself in half, so my forehead is on my knees, lacing my fingers behind my head.

Breathe.

Slowly, my heart rate drops into the non-coronary-inducing range and my head clears a little. When I can finally think, I sit up and look around. Prettily dressed couples are getting on at Lincoln Center. Not every show is dark on Christmas Eve. The ones that are running tonight are just getting out.

Shit.

There goes Broadway.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? All my stuff is at Brett’s apartment, so I’ll have to go back to get it, but then what? I can’t afford a place of my own. Maybe I could bunk with Mallory for a week or two, until I figure out what I’m going to do.

I drop my head into my hands again and try to shut off my mind.

When the whirring stops and I look up, we’re just pulling into Sheridan Square, and all of a sudden, I know where I’m going. I know why I got on this train. I collect my bag and climb the stairs out of the subway onto the street before I lose my nerve. I bump into at least five people as I weave my way quickly up Bleecker Street toward Perry. When I get where I’m going, I punch the button on the intercom at the door and wait. All my nerves feel short-circuited, making me twitchy. After a minute, I hit the button again, holding it an extra few seconds.

No answer.

Story of my freaking life.

I turn and sink onto the stoop, resting my aching head in my hands, trying to pull my shit together and figure out what to do.

“Hilary?”

I look up and find myself staring into Alessandro’s charcoal eyes. All I can do is sit here staring. But the next second, he’s pulled me up by the hand and I’m pressed against his black wool jacket.

“What happened?” he asks low in my ear. “Did someone hurt you?” His accent is soft and soothing, like silk, but there’s an edge of panic to his voice that’s barely concealed.

I shake my head as I try to think. “It’s just . . . nothing.” I push away from him, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know why I came here. It was stupid.” I step off the stoop, but he grasps my arm gently before I can get away.

“Come. I’ll find us something warm to drink.” He unlocks the door and ushers me through, then tows me into the elevator and up to his apartment.

His apartment. I’m at Alessandro’s apartment. With Alessandro.

We step into the hallway and my stomach tightens. I told him I couldn’t see him anymore for a reason. I can’t be here. I spin back toward the elevator. “I really should—”

“Hilary,” he warns, and I turn and look at him. “You are obviously upset. Please. Come into my apartment where we can talk.”

His locks me in his sure gaze as he takes my still gloved hand, and I find my feet moving up the hall without my permission. He slides his key in the lock and draws me through the door, closing it behind us. He turns back to face me . . . and I have no freaking clue what to say. What the hell was I thinking, coming here?

We stand here, like, three feet apart, staring at each other for what feels like the rest of my life.

“Can I take your coat?” he finally asks, shrugging out of his.

“Yeah . . . sure.” I peel off my gloves and shove them in my jacket pocket, then slip off my jacket and untwist my scarf from my neck. “Where were you so late?” I ask, handing everything to him.

“I got the director of Teen Services job at the youth center. We worked serving Christmas dinner at the local shelter. Cleanup took a while,” he answers, hanging both our coats on the hall tree just inside the door. He starts toward the kitchen. “I’ve got Coke or—”

“Any rum to go with it?” I ask, following him toward the kitchen.

“Sorry, no.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a half empty bottle of white wine, cocking an eyebrow at me. “This is the best I can do in that department.”

“Sold,” I say, leaning against the counter on the other side of the fridge. I watch as he pulls two glasses down and drains what’s left of the bottle into them. He scoops them off the counter and hands one to me on his way to the couch, where he turns and waits for me.

I follow and lower myself onto the cushions. Alessandro sits at the other end, setting his glass on his coffee table . . . which, I now notice, is modern: glass in a heavy metal frame.

“That’s great about your job,” I say. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says, swirling his wine. His eyes drop away from mine. “It gives me an outlet.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I coordinate programs to keep kids off the street.”

“What sort of programs?”

He settles deeper into the cushions. “Anything I can think of that a kid would need or want, from tutoring to boxing to computer programming. We have dozens of people from the community who volunteer their time to help the kids.”

My heart pounds as I open my mouth to ask, “So, does this mean you’re staying for a while?”

His holds me in his dark gaze. “That all depends.”

I swallow hard and force air into my lungs. “On what?”

Finally, he lowers his intense charcoal eyes, releasing me. “What happened tonight? Why are you here?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s just . . .” I feel unexpected tears spring up. I shake my head at the words I feel forming in my throat, but I can’t stop them. “All my life, all I’ve ever wanted was to act, you know? Ever since my grandpa took me to see Annie before he died, that’s all I’ve wanted . . . to stand up on the stage where I had everyone’s attention and just belt something out.”

The depth of the blade slicing through my insides as I say this surprises me and I suddenly realize that, even after everything, I really thought I could make it happen. I really thought I could have this. The death of my dream kills my soul a little too.

Alessandro leans in and wipes the tears off my face with his fingertips. “Then you should.”

With his touch, a sizzling electric current sweeps over me, raising goose bumps everywhere, and I realize that, other than slapping him outside Argo Tea, and dirty dancing at Club 69, which hardly count, this is the first time in eight years he’s touched me, skin on skin, no clothes or gloves between us. The feeling scares me. Without Brett as an obstacle, it’s dangerous for me to be here. I brush his hand away more brusquely than I mean to. I take a long swallow of wine, feeling the coolness and tartness of it roll over my tongue and slip down my throat, grounding me.

“When every third person in Manhattan is auditioning for the same three spots, it’s not that easy. You gotta know someone . . . have an in.” I feel my insides collapse at the knowledge that I just left my “in” standing naked in my apartment.

He tips his head toward me. “Surely it can’t be that simple. Talent has to count for something.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m not as talented as I thought I was.”

I feel that zing again as he picks my hand up off my knee and holds it in both of his. “But you are.”

My reflex is to pull my hand away, but I don’t. “How would you know?”

“Google and YouTube are all kinds of useful,” he says with an impish little smile that stirs something deep inside my belly.