3. Prue #2
"Like adults who recognize a good thing when they see it." She sighs. "Just promise me you won't ghost the poor guy because you're scared."
"I'm not scared," I insist, but the words sound hollow even to my ears.
Back at my desk, I force myself to work, laying out the fabric samples alongside paint chips and sketches of the Morgans' space. I'm deep in designer mode when my phone buzzes again.
Fox: Just finished framing the Parker addition. I thought you might like to see it.
Attached is a photo of a half-finished room with large, empty window frames overlooking the bay. The lighting is perfect—golden hour making everything glow warm and inviting. I can see why he sent it. The potential of the space is obvious even to someone who isn't trained to see it.
But what catches my attention isn't the room or the view. It's Fox's reflection in a pane of glass, caught accidentally. He's still wearing his tool belt, hair mussed, a smudge of something on his cheek. He looks tired but satisfied like people do when they've created something with their hands.
Something inside me softens.
Me: Good bones. Great light. The view's not bad, either.
Fox: You talking about the room or me?
Me: Modest as always, I see.
Fox: Just fishing for compliments from a beautiful woman.
I bite my lip, hesitating before typing:
Me: You have sawdust in your hair.
Fox: Now I'm self-conscious. Hold on.
A minute later, another photo arrives. It's clearly taken in what must be a job site bathroom, with hair now somewhat tamed and a face washed. He's attempting a serious expression, but there's a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Fox: Better?
The flutter in my stomach turns into something more like a swarm of butterflies.
Me: Worse. Now I can see your face clearly.
Fox: Ouch. And here I thought you found me somewhat attractive.
Me: I find lots of things "somewhat attractive." Sunsets. Puppies. Abstract art.
Fox: Are you comparing me to abstract art?
Me: If the incomprehensible canvas fits...
Fox: You're deflecting with humor again.
I stare at the screen, startled by his directness. Most guys would have continued the banter, never calling me out on using humor as a shield. But Fox sees through it, just like he did that night at his cabin when I tried to leave before morning.
Before I can formulate a response, the office door chimes. The Morgans are here, looking polished and expectant.
Me: Clients just arrived. Talk later.
I slip my phone into my desk drawer and stand, professional smile firmly in place. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, so good to see you again."
For the next hour, I'm all business, walking them through options, sketching quick alternatives when Mrs. Morgan hesitates over the geometric print, and answering questions about the timeline and budget.
It's the part of my job I love—translating someone else's vision into reality, solving the puzzle of their needs versus their wants.
When they leave, having selected the herringbone (as I suspected they would), Rory gives me an approving nod.
"Nice save with the window treatment suggestion. I thought the client would bolt when you showed her the first price estimate."
"Rich people are still cheap," I say with a shrug. "They just hide it better."
I return to my desk and retrieve my phone, surprised to find three new messages.
Fox: Good luck with the clients.
Fox: For the record, I wasn't just talking about the sex either when I said I miss you.
Fox: I miss the way you see things. How you notice details others don't. How you call me on my bullshit without being mean about it. And yeah, I miss your face, too.
I stare at the screen, something uncomfortably like longing tightening my chest. This is precisely what I was afraid of—a genuine connection. It's so much easier when it's just physical attraction. That, I know how to handle. This is trickier territory.
"So?" Rory appears beside me again, holding her coat and bag again. "Morgans all set?"
"All set," I confirm. "Herringbone won the day."
"Of course it did. You had them pegged from the start." She glances at my phone. "Fox again?"
I nod, not bothering to hide it.
"And?"
"And nothing. Fox is just being nice."
She snorts. "Nice. Right. That's why you look like someone just offered you a free trip to Paris but you have to leave tonight."
"That's oddly specific."
"I'm oddly perceptive." She hitches her bag higher on her shoulder. "I'm heading out—early dinner with my mom. You should go home too. It's after six."
I glance at the clock, surprised to find she's right. "I will. Just need to update the Morgans' file first."
After she leaves, I sit in the quiet office, my phone a weighty presence beside me. Finally, I pick it up.
Me: I don't know what to do with you, Fox Carmichael.
His response comes quickly as if he's been waiting.
Fox: What do you want to do with me?
It's the perfect opening for an innuendo, for steering us back to the safer territory of flirtation and desire. But something stops me—the same something that's been nagging at me all week.
Me: I'm not good at this. The after part.
Fox: Who says there has to be an after? Maybe this is just the middle.
I laugh despite myself.
Me: Now, who's being abstract?
Fox: I'm serious, Prue. I like you. You like me. We're both adults. Why complicate it with expectations?
Me: Because expectations always creep in. They're sneaky like that.
Fox: Then we'll deal with them when they show up. One day at a time.
I stare at his words, torn between hope and caution. One day at a time. It sounds so simple when he puts it that way.
Me: What if one day you wake up and decide the distance isn't worth it?
Fox: What if one day you wake up and decide it is?
I have no clever response to that. It's just a flutter of something that feels dangerously like a possibility.
Me: I should go home. It's late.
Fox: Will you text me when you get there? Just so I know you're safe.
And there it is—the kind of thoughtfulness that makes it hard to keep my walls up.
Me: I will.
I gather my things and lock up the office, my mind still spinning with thoughts of Fox, distance, and possibilities. As I step outside into the cool Seattle evening, my phone buzzes again.
Fox: For what it's worth, you're great at the after part. You're just out of practice.
I smile, tucking the phone into my pocket as I head for my car. Maybe he's right. I may be out of practice. Or perhaps this is something else entirely—something new that doesn't fit any of my carefully constructed categories.
One day at a time, he said.
Perhaps I can handle that much.