Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
AUDRA
We run into each other by accident.
That’s what it feels like, anyway.
I’m crossing the street with coffee already on my mind when I hear my name.
“Audra.”
I turn.
He’s standing outside the coffee shop across from the building, jacket open, tie already loosened. One hand around a cup, the other in his pocket.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
There’s a pause. Charged. Familiar.
“Heading in,” he asks.
I glance at the door. Then back at him.
“I can be late five minutes.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “So can I.”
Inside, he stands close in line. Not touching. Close enough that I feel him—his warmth, his presence, the scent I still register far too easily.
I notice everything. I just don’t owe him a reaction to it.
He pays before I can protest.
When the barista slides the drinks across, he adds a brownie.
“You didn’t ask,” I say.
“You skip breakfast.”
“And if I was allergic?”
He lifts a brow. “Are you.”
“No.”
“Then we’re fine.”
He says it like a conclusion. I let it stand, mostly because I want to see if he’ll keep earning that confidence.
We sit by the window. Knees almost touching.
He watches me take the first bite.
“What,” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I break off a piece and slide it toward him. Our fingers brush.
Not accidental.
When we leave, he holds the door. His hand settles briefly at my lower back—guiding, respectful—and then it’s gone.
It becomes a thing.
Accidentally on purpose.
Coffee together. Every morning.
He changes it up. Croissants. Muffins. Something lemony I didn’t expect to crave.
No labels. No pressure.
Just consistency and us, together, figuring it out slowly.
When he asks me out for a movie night, it’s understated.
“I was thinking something low-key,” he says. “At your place. If that works for you.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we do something else.”
It does.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. Pretending we’re watching.
At some point, his arm comes along the back of the cushions. Space offered, not taken.
I lean in.
He doesn’t mistake familiarity for permission.
This is me allowing it.
His breath changes.
We don’t rush it. We don’t talk it to death.
When he kisses me, it’s slow. Controlled. Like he’s giving me every chance to stop it.
I don’t.
Heat builds. Familiar. Wanted.
When things start to tip from sweet into something sharper, he stills.
“Okay,” he says quietly. A question.
“Yes.”
Clear. Steady.
We end up tangled together, foreheads touching, breathing a little uneven.
“This,” I say, “was a good idea.”
He smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
A few weeks later, he asks me to dinner.
A formal one.
“There’s an event,” he says. “You don’t have to come, but I’d like for you to be my date.”
“Chuck will be there.”
“Yes.”
“If it gets uncomfortable,” I say, “we leave?”
“Immediately.”
“Then yes.”
I didn’t feel cornered into agreeing. That alone tells me how far we’ve come.
The ride to the dinner is short. Comfortable. We talk about work, about nothing.
When he catches me looking at him, his smile turns slow and knowing.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says, “and we’re not going to make it inside.”
“We’re already here,” I tell him as the valet steps forward.
His eyes darken. “Later, then.”
He takes my hand and settles it into the crook of his arm.
I draw in a breath.
Then we walk inside.