Chapter 7 #3
“At first I did.”
I stay quiet.
“There were dinners she photographed before we ate. Trips that became partnership content. The engagement announcement had a sponsor attached before my mother knew.”
“Oh.”
“Celeste thought sharing was a way to own the narrative.”
“And you?”
“I started treating privacy like a bunker.”
The rain fills the pause.
He looks at me.
“We kept making each other worse.”
That is such an adult answer that I almost resent it.
No villain.
No grand betrayal.
Two people finding the worst defense mechanisms available and reinforcing them until love becomes exhausting.
“Why didn’t you just say it was over publicly?”
“Because every time I imagined doing it, I could see the headlines. Her audience blaming me. Mine blaming her. People choosing sides. Analysts asking whether distraction affected Northspan.”
“So you let ambiguity do the job.”
“Yes.”
“And ambiguity became its own story.”
“Yes.”
I lean against the desk.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Your email refresh?”
“My hiding.”
His eyes sharpen.
I look at the logo on my laptop.
“For two years, I have told myself I was waiting until I had enough certainty to start again.”
“You emailed the clients.”
“I know.”
“You bought the domain.”
“Tessa threatened me.”
“Still counts.”
“I said the business name out loud to Landon.”
“That sounded harder.”
“It was.”
Grant reaches across the desk.
Not for the laptop.
For my hand.
He stops an inch away.
I close the distance.
His fingers fold around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
No audience.
No rule being performed.
“I don’t think certainty is coming,” I say.
“No.”
“Terrible business model.”
“Most important things are.”
“That sounds suspiciously inspirational.”
“I can make it worse.”
“Please don’t.”
His thumb moves over my knuckle.
My attention drops to his mouth.
There goes higher reasoning.
Again.
Grant notices.
Again.
“May I kiss you?”
I stand.
“Your question process is becoming inefficient.”
His eyes darken.
“Is that a yes?”
I walk around the desk.
“Yes.”
He rises before I reach him.
The kiss starts soft.
It does not stay that way.
My hands slide into his hair before I make a conscious decision about them.
Grant’s palms settle at my waist.
I step closer.
He makes that low sound I discovered beside the town green.
Apparently I have developed a Pavlovian response to it.
My body presses against his.
His mouth moves over mine, slower for half a second, then harder when I catch his lower lip between my teeth.
“Fuck,” he says quietly.
I smile against his mouth.
“Excellent executive vocabulary.”
“You are not helping.”
“I am not trying to.”
His hand moves up my back.
Not under my sweater.
Yet.
That unspoken restraint makes heat pool low in my stomach.
I kiss him again.
Long enough that I forget there is a proposal open on my laptop.
Long enough that his fingers tighten against my waist and my hips move forward on instinct.
He pulls back.
Barely.
His forehead rests against mine.
“Slow,” he says.
I am breathing too hard to respect him for remembering.
Unfortunately, I do.
“I know.”
“If you want to change that…”
“I know.”
He waits.
God.
This man and waiting.
I close my eyes.
“I want to.”
His breath catches.
“Tonight?”
There is no pressure in it.
Which makes the answer entirely mine.
I open my eyes.
“Not tonight.”
He nods once.
No disappointment used as leverage.
No argument disguised as seduction.
Just acceptance.
I touch his jaw.
“But I want to see your house.”
His eyebrows rise.
“That sounded more threatening than romantic.”
“It was meant to.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You know I live three miles outside town.”
“I run the site. I know where everyone is.”
“Still terrifying.”
“I want to know where the man I’m dating actually lives when he isn’t occupying my orchard like a very expensive migratory bird.”
His mouth curves.
“Dating?”
I freeze.
He does not.
He just watches me.
I consider retreat.
I consider technical definitions.
I consider explaining that I meant our private real dates and not the fake arrangement and that English is an imprecise language under sexual duress.
Then I remember the domain name sitting at the top of my browser.
The business I finally said was real because I stopped shrinking it every time it frightened me.
Maybe Grant is not the only thing I have been waiting to define until definition feels safe.
“Yes,” I say.
His smile is slow.
Dangerous.
“Dating.”
I point at him.
“Do not make this smug.”
“I’m trying.”
“You’re failing.”
“I’ve heard that.”
I kiss him once more because repetition can be useful.
When I step back, the rain is still falling.
My proposal still needs another read tomorrow.
Celeste is still coming to Manchester Thursday.
Landon is still somewhere in Bellweather with years of shared history and a folder of files that belong to me.
Nothing is solved.
That should scare me.
It does.
But tomorrow I am going to Grant’s house.
Thursday I am pitching my first potential Bell & Weather client.
And for the first time in a long time, the fact that my life is getting bigger feels less like a warning.
It feels like mine.