Chapter Ten #2
I slide it back between my teeth. “I wasn’t aware you were collecting data.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I wasn’t aware you were giving me anything worth collecting,” she says it matter-of-factly, like she’s simply pointing out cause and effect.
I look up, and she’s already looking at me. The smile is still there, but it’s softer around the edges.
Neither of us says anything.
The monitors keep humming, someone laughs somewhere down the hallway, a cupboard door slams in the kitchen, and the clubhouse carries on around us, but for a few seconds none of it reaches this office when I hold her gaze.
A few months ago, I’d have found a reason to look away. Check another monitor. Answer a phone that wasn’t ringing. Invent a task that suddenly couldn’t wait.
But I don’t.
It’s only a few seconds.
Long enough for that familiar twist low in my stomach to remind me I’ve been losing this battle for a while now.
Then her phone vibrates against the desk, and I see the change before she even picks it up.
The warmth leaves her face so quickly it’s almost hard to believe it was ever there.
By the time she glances at the screen, she’s already wearing the ‘other’ smile.
The polite one. The one she puts on when she wants the rest of the world to stop asking questions.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Her eyes flick back to mine. “Yeah. Stupid work.”
I don’t believe her.
She slips the phone into her jacket pocket before I have a chance to ask anything else and pushes herself to her feet. “I should let you get back to your spreadsheets before you start color-coding the paperclips.”
“I’ve considered it,” I reply.
“I know you have, you nerd.” She smiles, soft and tired all at once, then steps around my chair.
I expect her to keep walking, but instead, she stops beside me. Her hand comes up, her fingertips brushing lightly against my cheek before her palm settles there, warm against my skin, and for one stupid second I forget how to goddamn think.
She leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
It’s quick and gentle. The sort of thing she does without making a production out of it.
She’s already pulling away when my hand moves before my brain catches up. My fingers close around her wrist. It is not enough to stop her just enough that she stills.
So do I.
She’d been halfway through standing again. Now she’s caught, bent over me, her palm still cradling my cheek, my hand wrapped around her wrist, and neither of us seems entirely sure what happens next.
I lift my gaze.
She looks down.
Our eyes meet.
Something shifts.
Not in the room, in me.
It starts somewhere behind my ribs and spreads outward, until I’m painfully aware of every inch separating us.
The warmth of her hand against my face. The steady pulse beneath my thumb.
The way she’s close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of color scattered through her eyes, little pieces of gold I’d somehow never noticed before.
She’s still looking at me, but she isn’t smiling anymore.
Neither am I.
There’s no joke waiting to rescue either of us this time.
The clubhouse keeps moving around us, but it all feels a long way away.
I should let go. The thought arrives clean and logical.
Instead, my thumb shifts, brushing once across the inside of her wrist.
I watch her catch her breath, and mine follows a second later.
Jesus Christ!
I don’t know what the hell this is.
I don’t know why every instinct I’ve trusted for years is telling me to put space back between us while every other part of me refuses to fucking move.
It’s uncomfortable.
Not because I want her to step away.
But because I just… don’t.
And honestly, I don’t know what to fucking do with that.
“Oi!” Deek’s voice crashes down the hallway.
“You two planning on solving world hunger in there, or are you bringing the jerky?”
Sage blinks, and the moment fractures. Her eyes drop to my hand as if she’s only just realized it’s still there. “So,” she says quietly.
“So,” I reply, my voice barely audible.
Neither of us moves for another heartbeat, then, regrettably, I let go.
She clears her throat, her fingers lingering against my cheek for the smallest fraction of a second before they fall away. “I really should go.”
“You probably should.”
She gives me one last look, but it is different somehow. I have the feeling we’re both leaving this room with the same damn problem. Then she turns and heads for the kitchen.
The smell of her shampoo hangs in the office after she disappears, and I sit there looking at the doorway longer than I know I should.
I pick up the toothpick she just spent ten minutes giving me hell over, slide it back between my teeth, and realize I’m smiling around it, but I don’t go after her.
I’ve learned that whatever she’s carrying, she’ll talk about it when she’s ready.
Pushing makes her retreat another step, and I’ve got no interest in being the reason she puts distance between us.
I turn back to the monitors and last all of thirty seconds. My eyes drift to the office doorway instead. I can still see the way she’d walked out—the stiffness through her shoulders, the smile she’d put back on before she reached the kitchen. Four weeks ago, I probably wouldn’t have noticed.
Now that’s a fucking lie.
I’d have noticed.
I just wouldn’t have admitted to myself that I had.
Something’s wrong.
I don’t know what it is yet.
But I will figure it out.
And whatever she’s carrying, whatever’s buzzing against her hip in the middle of a good afternoon and turning her whole face to stone, I intend to find out exactly what it is.
Because somewhere along the way, keeping my distance stopped feeling smart.
And started feeling reckless.