Something akin to relief stirred in my chest. At least he wasn’t acting totally out of character.

“Sorry, Luna, you’ll have to find another TV for your rom-coms,” Xavier said without looking away from the screen. “This one is occupied.”

“I know. I didn’t come to watch a movie.” I sat beside him and unloaded my armful of goods on the coffee table. “I came to see you.”

His gaze flicked to me with apparent surprise before it cooled again. “Why?”

“You need to eat.” I eyed the empty beer bottles scattered around us. “And drink something without alcohol.”

“You came to feed and hydrate me?” A thread of amusement ran beneath Xavier’s otherwise dubious tone.

“Like you’re a pesky pet I got stuck with. Here.” I shoved a bottle of water in his hand and a plate of homemade empanadas in his lap.

He hissed and quickly lifted the plate off his legs, only to drop it back just as fast. “Jesus, that’s hot.”

“Then you should eat them before they burn your favorite appendage,” I said innocently.

A hint of laughter pulled on his mouth, and he wiped at it with his hand before he picked up an empanada. “Doris’s specialty and my favorite. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. I saw you weren’t eating, so I asked if she’d make some food for you, and she produced those.”

With my admission came the tiniest tremor—a frisson of electricity that hummed between us and swallowed the lightheartedness in the air.

Xavier’s hint of laughter disappeared. Warmth rushed to the pit of my stomach, and I unconsciously shifted beneath his burning gaze.

“Thank you,” he said, a strange note in his voice. “That was… very thoughtful of you.”

I replied with a stiff smile, hoping he didn’t see the blood rising to the surface of my skin. It occurred to me that I might’ve been the only person who’d checked on Xavier’s well-being since he arrived—everyone else was too busy or didn’t care—and the realization sent a conflicting rush of emotions through me.

He was an adult. He didn’t need someone looking after him, but I felt gratified when he ate the empanadas and drank the water without complaint anyway.

“How many do you represent?” Xavier tilted his chin toward the screen, where a gallery of superstar athletes flashed in between clips. They represented the best and brightest of every major professional sports league in the Western Hemisphere: NFL. NBA. MLB. Premier League. La Liga. So on and so forth.

I crossed my legs, still a touch unnerved by my reaction to him earlier. That’s what happens when I don’t get enough sleep. “One.”

A deep baritone recounted the meteoric rise of Asher Donovan over footage of his teen and early club years, culminating with the legendary halfway line goal against Liverpool that’d catapulted him into a household name.

I glanced at Xavier as the screen flipped to headlines about Asher’s record-setting transfer to Blackcastle.

“But you knew that already,” I said.

His mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Sure. As long as I’m still your favorite.”

Despite his disheveled appearance, he smelled like soap and fresh laundry. He reached for a napkin, his leg grazing mine, and heat traveled from my thigh to my stomach.

“Try one.” Xavier used the napkin to pick up an empanada and handed it to me. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had one of Doris’s empanadas.”

I took a tentative bite. Flaky, tender butteriness melted in my mouth, followed by a rich explosion of flavor. Ground beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic. Perfectly seasoned and perfectly balanced against the dough.

“Wow,” I said, slightly stunned. It’d been a while since I’d eaten something so simple yet so good. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you.” Xavier’s dimples made a surprise appearance. “Have another one. She loves making them. Says it’s soothing.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Did you eat lunch or breakfast?”

No. “I brought the food for you.”

“Yes, and I’m sharing it with you.” He nudged the plate toward me. “I insist.”

Xavier wouldn’t ease up until I agreed, so I reached for another piece and settled deeper in the couch. Sharing food was a simple, platonic act that people did every day, so why did my stomach feel like a breeding ground for a fresh swarm of butterflies?

I kept my gaze planted on the television until I finished eating and brushed the crumbs from my hands. “What?” I asked when he continued staring at me instead of the TV.

“Still wearing this, I see.” His fingers brushed Pen’s friendship bracelet, and my muscles instinctively tensed. The bracelet wasn’t the most professional accessory, but I could easily hide it with long sleeves. “You ever going to tell me about the mystery gifter?”

“I’ll tell you the day you get a job.”

His low laugh sent the butterflies soaring. “Touché.”

Xavier dropped his hand, and oxygen flowed a little more freely. “When I was a kid, I thought I would be the next Diego Maradona,” he said. “Unfortunately, I was more interested in hanging out with my friends than training.”

“Really? I never would’ve guessed.” The sad part was, I bet he could’ve gone pro if he’d put the time and effort in.

That was what galled me about him and why I was harder on him than anyone else. Xavier wasn’t my rudest or most entitled client, but he had the greatest wasted potential.

“At least I’m consistent.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You can always count on me for a good time.”

Maybe. But beneath the champagne showers and yacht parties, how good a time was he actually having?

“So, spill it,” he said when the documentary segued from Asher to LeBron James. “What sport did you play growing up?”

“What makes you so sure I played one?”

“Sloane.” Xavier side-eyed me with a look that made my mouth curve despite myself. “You are too competitive not to have captained a team or three.”

True.

“Tennis, volleyball, and golf,” I admitted. “I tried soccer, but it wasn’t for me. My sister loves it though.”

The last part slipped out without thought, and Xavier perked up like a predator sensing prey.

“Your sister?” A speculative gleam entered his eyes. “Georgia, right?”

Shit. I never brought up my family, so I didn’t blame him for being curious, but the sound of her name on his lips brought those empanadas back up.

“No.” The thought of Georgia playing soccer, of all things, was laughable. “My other sister, Penelope.”