Pointe of Pride

Chapter 12

A lot had changed since he’d left Sydney, but at least this one thing was the same: Marcus’s place felt as comfortable and welcoming as it had when he was fifteen years old and here for a sleepover. Even though Marcus and Heather had given the place a fresh coat of paint, it was just as warm and homey in here as he remembered. Leanne was still kind and no-nonsense, and they still had the old barbeque Marcus’s dad, Richard, had fired up seemingly every time Nick had come over. He had always felt like he could uncoil a little here. Breathe a little deeper. Relax more than he could in the dorms.

Another thing that hadn’t changed in his absence: Davo Campbell was still kind of a tosser. Davo had always had a knack for making his younger brother feel like the least important person in the room, and the last fifteen years clearly hadn’t broken him of his need to find little ways to dig at Marcus and try to get under his skin. The first time Nick had witnessed it, he’d wondered why all Davo’s seemingly friendly comments seemed to have an edge to them, a mean bite to the laughter. Now he understood that this was what passed for bonding for a lot of Australian men—taking the piss out of each other and saying “I’m just joking” if anyone called foul—but Nick had never had much patience for it. His tolerance was even lower after the years away. Leanne had called him the peacekeeper, but mostly he was there so that Davo could pull that shit on someone else, and give Marcus a break for a change.

No wonder Marcus hadn’t wanted Davo as his best man, Nick thought, as they all crowded around the table, drinks in hand. His toast would have been a nightmare.

“Leanne, Davo, why don’t you take your usual spots,” Heather called over the chatter, and Nick watched as Leanne took a seat at the head of the table and Davo took the chair opposite her, at what he remembered as Richard’s old place.

“I’m next to Izzy,” Alice said, pulling out the chair next to her girlfriend’s and placing her drink down.

“Oh, get a room,” Marcus said, and all the women laughed, including Carly. She was clutching her wine glass tightly, eyes wide, as though she was a little overwhelmed by the whole scene, and it took him a moment to realize that the only person she really knew here was Heather. Well, he supposed that if bickering constantly with someone and letting them take photos of you was a way to know them, then she knew him a bit, too.

He’d spent most of the day hunched over his computer editing photos of her. He’d had plenty to work with, because this morning’s photos had turned out really well. Not the ones Carly had taken, where he looked damp and bedraggled, his expression a strange mix of exhausted and exhilarated. But the ones he’d taken of her were the best work he’d done in months, in his opinion. Perhaps he should have been photographing dancers outside all this time. He’d done so many sessions in the studio, trying to capture intimate moments in rehearsal and class, but even the Paris Opera Ballet, which rehearsed in a studio with a soaring domed ceiling on the top floor of the famed Opera Garnier, didn’t have light like this. Heather had mentioned something about how the light was different in Sydney than in any other place she’d been—sharper, brighter, more saturated—and looking at the shots he’d taken at the pool and on the beach, Nick had to agree.

The shot of Carly in that deep kneeling backbend looked good in colour—the red and yellow flags, the pink horizon, and Carly’s red bun all made for a sense of warmth against the huge expanses of blue sky and water. But it looked striking in black and white, he thought; removing the colours made Carly look like a pale bird on the beach, a creature he’d just happened to capture as she stretched on the sand.

The ones he’d taken by the pool, though, were even better. He’d stared for a full minute at the best of the bunch, a shot of Carly with one foot extended in a tendu and her supporting leg slightly bent. Her free arm was extended at forty-five degrees, and she was looking up at her hand as she prepared to sweep the arm, and then her whole body, down over her stretched leg. Her lips were slightly parted, and he could almost feel the breath she was taking and would sigh out as she folded over. The warm morning light caught all the oranges and golds in her curls and made her brown eyes glow as she watched her own fingers, her face lit with anticipation and pleasure. Once again, he was struck by how happy she looked when was dancing, even if it was just a simple barre exercise by the beach. She looked content and in control. She might be pure chaos the rest of the time, but something happened to her face when she danced. No wonder she didn’t know what she was going to do once she retired: this was the thing that brought her joy so deep it all but screamed off the screen. Even her ridiculous hot pink nails looked right in this light.

Tonight, her curls looked damp from the shower, and she was wearing a sage green linen shirt-dress that stopped just above her knees. Against the green fabric, the orange-red of her roiling curls looked brighter and more saturated than usual. The dress was loose and somewhat shapeless, but low-cut enough to reveal her sternum, which he knew from staring at photos of her was paler than her arms and legs, with freckles scattered across it. He tightened his jaw and told himself that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about the freckles on her sternum.

She met his eyes over the table as the laughter petered out, and he swore he saw her grip on her glass get even tighter.

“Uh, I’ll sit next to Heather, if that’s okay?” she asked the room, and Leanne nodded her approval. Carly pulled out her chair and took a big swig of her wine.

“And I’d like to sit next to my future wife,” Marcus grinned, dropping a kiss on Heather’s temple and shooting a challenging, amused look across the table at Alice. That left Marcus to take Heather’s other side and Nick to squeeze in alongside Izzy. Directly opposite Carly. She smiled a little as she sat down, and it wasn’t the too-wide, just-for-show smile she’d thrown his way every other time they’d been around Heather and Marcus. It was quiet, just a flash of white teeth visible above her full bottom lip, and before he could think better of it, he felt himself return it.

With some difficulty, he pulled his chair out and folded himself into it, and Izzy leaned into Alice to make space for him. Still, it was a tight squeeze; this table was probably fine for a six person Sunday dinner, but eight was pushing it.

“All right everyone, no need to stand on ceremony. Just dig in,” Leanne said, and then the table was a mess of arms and hands and tongs as all eight of them passed platters around and loaded up their plates. He watched as Izzy heaped salad onto Alice’s plate and Marcus took a few seconds to select the best-looking piece of grilled eggplant for Heather. Meanwhile, Heather served Leanne a bit of everything, saving the older woman from having to deal with the tongs or the salad servers. Davo had already started cutting into his steak.

“So, Nicholas,” Leanne started, once much of the food had been transferred from serving dishes to plates, and Nick sat up a little straighter at her tone.

“Am I also about to get grilled?” he joked, and Leanne chuckled. Alice and Izzy groaned in unison, and Carly gave her head a tiny shake as she cut up a piece of meat.

Leanne gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a grilling, I just want to know how life has been since I last saw you, what was it, a decade ago?”

“Something like that. Right before I moved to Paris, I think.”

Leanne’s face took on a dreamy, faraway look. “Paris,” she sighed. “I’ve always wanted to go. Tell me everything. Do you have a collection of striped shirts and a bike with a bread basket on the back?”

Nick tilted his head skeptically. It was like the reverse of what French people sometimes asked him when he revealed he’d grown up in Australia—Est-ce que vous aviez un kangourou en lieu d’un chien?—and about as far removed from reality.

“I think I only have one striped shirt, and I had a moped for a while, but it’s mostly the Métro for me.”

Leanne sighed again. “Even public transit sounds more romantic in French.”

“I don’t know, taking a bus over the Harbour Bridge every day is pretty romantic,” Heather piped up. “Oh, that reminds me, Carly, we should take a ferry into the city this week. Best commute in the world. No offense to the Métro, Nick,” she added.

“None taken,” he said quickly, as Carly nodded at Heather. He shoved some grilled zucchini in his mouth, hoping Heather would keep talking so that Leanne couldn’t ask any more questions about his life in Paris. His former life in Paris. His former commute to his former job from his former apartment with his former girlfriend.

But instead Heather kept eating, and Leanne did have more questions.

“And what have you been doing since you got to Sydney?” she asked, peering at him curiously over her wine glass. “Marcus mentioned you’ve become a photographer since you retired from dancing.”

Nick lifted his mouth into an imitation of her smile. It felt like work. He pulled his shoulders back and did his best impression of a confident, well-established photographer.

“That’s right. It’s been a fun challenge.” That was only half a lie. There was nothing fun about going from knowing exactly what he was doing, and knowing he was good at it, to feeling like a lost, floundering failure.

“I imagine it’s a difficult field to break into.” He nodded in confirmation, hoping the heat creeping up his neck wouldn’t reach his cheeks. It felt crappy to lie to Leanne, crappy and dangerous. The woman hadn’t spent decades as a nurse and raised two sons without developing an extremely sensitive bullshit detector.

“Well, goodness knows you’ve got some experience with that,” Leanne said.

“That’s true, and at least this time around I don’t have to wear tights to work.”

“You could if you wanted to,” Marcus said, his mouth half-full of steak. “Might be a nice trademark.”

“You’ve been helping Carly out with her promotion project, in between wedding errands, right?” Heather spoke up. “How’s it going?” Carly looked up from her plate and smiled at him—that small, real smile again, and she cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, awaiting his answer.

“Euh, it’s going swimmingly,” he said, and Carly’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Okay, so she was probably remembering how ridiculous he looked climbing out of the pool soaked to his skin, but he didn’t mind. She’d saved his camera, they’d gotten good shots, and so far, their plan was working.

“That’s good of you,” Leanne said. “And when the wedding’s over, you’ll head back to Paris?”

Nick turned to Leanne, away from the glittering warmth of Carly’s mischievous gaze. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Leanne’s eyes.

“I’m still figuring out my options,” he said. He swivelled his body towards the other end of the table, desperate to engineer a subject change. “So, uh, Davo, how’s the contracting business these days?”

Davo took his time chewing and swallowing. Finally, he spoke. “Yeah, good,” he said, before taking another sip of his beer. Then, nothing. Why had Nick counted on the most taciturn person at the table to help him divert the conversation?

“Effusive as ever, Davo,” Alice said drily. “I think what Davo means to say is, ‘The contracting business is going gangbusters because the homeowners of Sydney love nothing more than knocking down their expensive houses and turning them into even more expensive houses in a never ending real estate arms race that keeps everyone but rich people with rich parents from ever owning property.’”

God bless Alice Ho. She’d been a few years behind them at the ANB school, and Nick remembered her as quiet and serious, but she’d clearly grown out of that.

“Right, and meanwhile, the rental market is also absolutely bananas, so we’re totally trapped,” Izzy added. “When Alice and I moved in together I thought it would mean a bit of a break on rent, but the way rents are rising, it’s hardly anything.”

“There are other advantages,” Alice objected, holding up her fingers and counting off. “Love, companionship, a hook-up to Will’s endless baked goods.”

“I’m mostly in it for the baked goods,” Izzy grinned, and Alice gave a faux-wounded gasp.

Nick laughed, and soon everyone at the table, well, everyone except Davo, was engaged in a lively conversation about which newly renovated house in the surrounding neighbourhood was the most hideous. Once the conversation got going, Carly met his eyes across the table.

Swimmingly?she mouthed, punctuating the silent word with a tiny shake of her head. He replied with an equally tiny shrug, and she flicked her eyes upward in an abbreviated roll. He huffed a quiet laugh, and for a moment it felt like they were friends. Or at least, they were not two wildly mismatched people who could barely tolerate being in each other’s presence.

Soon the platters were being passed for seconds and Alice was warning people to save room for dessert because her brother had sent along a spectacular pavlova, and Nick was full of good food and relaxed for the first time in what felt like months. The rest of Sydney had changed, but this small pocket of the city seemed to have been waiting for him, warm and recognizable, since the day he left. Across the table, Carly and Heather were laughing about something, and Nick watched as Carly threw her head back, the pale column of her neck arching gracefully toward the ceiling, drawing Nick’s attention to the deep V at the front of her dress. Once again, he had to remind himself not to think about the spray of freckles across her sternum.

When their plates were empty, Heather stood and began to clear the table.

“Sit,” Marcus instructed her quickly. “We’ll do this.”

Heather opened her mouth to object, but Carly pushed her chair back and grabbed the plates from her hands. “Don’t argue,” she said firmly. Carly cast a look over her shoulder, summoning Nick to his feet with a lift of her chin. Not daring to disobey her, he grabbed the nearest empty plate and took it into the kitchen.

He, Marcus, and Carly ferried the empty platters and used cutlery off to the kitchen, and Alice went to the fridge and pulled out an enormous pavlova. Nick started rinsing plates, and after a moment, Carly arrived at his side.

“You rinse, I’ll load,” she said, holding out her hands. For a moment they worked in silence, the comfortable, happy noise of the conversation at the table washing over them.

“‘Swimmingly’ wasn’t any worse than ‘Heather and Mucus,’” he said quietly, and she laughed. It was a lovely sound, all surprise and genuine amusement. She bent to put the plates in the dishwasher, and this time he wasn’t successful at keeping his eyes from her skin where her dress gaped slightly at the neckline.

“How did the photos come out?”

“The ones you took of me? They’re prime blackmail material. I look ridiculous.”

“I know, I was there,” she chuckled. “I meant the ones of me.”

“They’re good,” he said quietly. An understatement. They’re the best work I’ve done in months. I managed to capture the way you soak up and reflect all that light, and for a moment today it felt like I’d finally captured reality. He didn’t say any of that. “They’re very good. You’re, euh, easy to photograph.”

Carly looked up at him, her hands full of knives, which a few days ago would have made him extremely nervous. She usually looked at him like she wished she had a knife or two handy. But now she was giving him that same shy smile, like she was testing the shape with her mouth.

“I think that’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me, asshole.”

“Probably the last, brat,” he volleyed back, but he was smiling, too.

An hour later the pavlova—just as spectacular as Alice had promised—had been demolished. Izzy had threatened to lick the crumbs of meringue and remaining blobs of cream off her plate, and then made good on the threat. After the chorus of ewws and come ons had subsided, and Izzy had smacked her lips in defiant satisfaction, a warm, sated silence fell over the table.

“That was one of Will’s best, I reckon,” Marcus told Alice. “If the wedding cake’s anything like that, we’re going to eat the whole thing ourselves.”

“Oh, are we making this wedding BYOC, now?” Heather asked, amused.

“It’s not the worst idea in the world,” Marcus shrugged.

“No, it is,” Alice deadpanned, and everyone laughed. “You have to serve them cake. It’s basically the law.”

“All right, we’ll let them have a little,” Marcus conceded. “I hope Delphine knows what she’s missing by staying behind in Paris. The French are good at patisserie, but I bet they haven’t mastered the perfect pav. Nick’s girlfriend couldn’t make the trip,” he added for the benefit of Leanne and Davo.

Across the table, Carly’s head snapped towards him and Nick froze with the remnants of a laugh still curving his mouth, the mention of Delphine making his stomach lurch. He managed a noncommittal nod in Marcus’s direction, and the conversation moved on. He could feel Carly’s eyes on him, sharp and focused as Izzy regaled the table with how she’d been the first to know Marcus and Heather were sneaking around, because they’d made out in the fitting room in her shop.

He looked across the table at Carly. She was smiling, but it wasn’t that shy, genuine, teasing smile. It was the making-nice smile, wide and toothy and completely for show. Foreboding crept across the back of Nick’s neck as he met her eyes, which had gone cold and dead. She looked away, fixing her gaze on Izzy, who was dramatically demonstrating the way Marcus had snuck out of the fitting room, apparently totally unaware that Izzy was watching him and had definitely clocked his messed up hair and rumpled shirt. Heather had her face in her hands and was groaning in embarrassed amusement. Nick watched as Carly kept her eyes stubbornly on Izzy, even though he was sure she could feel him watching her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her posture rigid.

As the laughter died down and Izzy finished her performance—“All’s well that ends well, but you guys are the reason I hung PLEASE DON’T MAKE OUT IN HERE signs in all my fitting rooms”—Carly yawned widely.

“I’m beat. Do you mind if I call it a night?” she asked Heather, still studiously avoiding looking his way. He watched her, trying to catch her eye, but it was pointless. She didn’t look at him as she stood and said her goodbyes to Leane and hugged Alice and Izzy, and she didn’t glance his way as Heather stood and walked her to the front door.

What had just happened?

“Euh, back in a sec,” he muttered to the table, standing quickly. “I need to ask Carly something about tomorrow’s shoot.”

Carly leaned against the warm bricks of the front of the house, taking deep, calming breaths. In for five, out for five. In for five, out for—nope, not working. She was still fucking furious.

She didn’t even know why. All she knew was that Marcus had mentioned Nick’s girlfriend—because Nick had a girlfriend, apparently—and her stomach had dropped to her knees, and a series of unwelcome emotions had swept through her. Embarrassment, because she should have known. He was a hot, successful photographer who was occasionally funny and borderline bearable. Of course he had a girlfriend. Humiliation, because a small, stupid part of her had been starting to enjoy his company and had thought he was enjoying hers. Fear that he’d known that was what she was thinking—or worse, think she was attracted to him—and would look down on her even more now. And then, the fury.

This was what she got for letting herself forget, even for a second, that despite being enjoyable company when he was loose and goofy, Nick Jacobs was an asshole. She took one more pointless deep breath. She’d take a long, angry walk on the beach and try to clear her head. She was about to push herself off the wall when the front door opened, and she turned and found herself face-to-face with the loose, goofy, asshole himself.

“I was just going,” she said.

“Wait a sec. Can we talk?”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. Ideally ever. But at least not until tomorrow.” They still had work to do, God help her. She still needed him. The thought only made her more furious, and she moved to leave.

“You’re upset,” he said. He said it like it was a matter of fact, like he was so sure, and she hated his certainty and hated that he was right.

“Yeah, that happens a lot around you,” she snapped.

“I’ve noticed,” he said slowly, observing her closely. Giving her his damn photographer look, like he was piecing together a whole picture together around her.

“I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” she shot back.

He took a step toward her, and she wanted to step back, keep the space between them constant. Or better, put an entire beach between her and Nick Jacobs. An entire continent.

“Probably not. But you were fine back there, and then you weren’t. What’s wrong?”

“Just the usual, proximity to you.”

“Carly.” Again, it wasn’t a question. He took another step toward her, and she pressed her back against the hard, warm bricks. She wanted to run; she wanted to melt into the wall. She wanted him to stop looking at her like that.

“Nick,” she hissed back.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated.

“Why do you even care? I’m a big-time ballet brat, remember?”

“And I’m an uptight asshole. But we’re stuck with each other.” He was stuck with her, he meant. He had taken pity on her. “And if we’re going to keep working with each other, you either need to get it together or tell me the truth.”

She stared at him furiously for a few seconds, then forced the words out. “You could have told me you had a girlfriend.” She hated how plaintive and pathetic she sounded.

There was a long silence, and her words hung in the air. Nick was giving her that look again, and she watched as realization dawned on his stupid, handsome face. She wanted to screw her own face up and squeeze her eyes shut so she didn’t have to watch a knowing smile creep over his mouth, but she willed herself to stare him down, desperate to hold on to some scraps of dignity. It was physical attraction, what she felt. That was all. He was objectively good looking. She could think that without liking him. The world was full of objectively good-looking men, literally millions of them, and plenty of them were unlikeable assholes and—oh God, he would hold this over her forever, she thought as she watched him.

But the smile she was expecting never materialized. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his head and sighed.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said quietly.

“Oh, bullshit,” she retorted.

“I don’t,” he said, more firmly this time. “We broke up a few months ago.”

“Marcus doesn’t seem to think so.”

“Yeah, well I lied to Marcus,” he shot back hotly.

Carly frowned. “Why?”

“I—It doesn’t matter. It’s complicated.”

“Uh-uh, no way,” Carly crossed her arms. “If we’re going to keep working together, you either need to get it together or tell me the truth.”

Nick narrowed his eyes at her, but after a moment, he spoke. “She broke up with me. We were together a long time. I was hurt, and I wanted to lick my wounds on my own. And, I didn’t want to make my break-up Marcus’s problem when he had a wedding to plan. Okay?”

Carly shrugged, as if this information was neither here nor there to her, as if she wasn’t alight with curiosity. How long was a long time? Had they talked about marriage? What was she like? What was Nick like when he was in love? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like you, and you don’t want to like him.

“Okay,” she said, pushing off the wall at last. “Are we done here?”

“Maybe,” Nick said. “If you can tell me why you’d be so upset if I had a girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t be,” she gritted out. Her pulse was suddenly fluttering in her ribcage again.

“But you were. We established that already.”

God, he was infuriating. “Fuck off, Nick.”

“I’ll fuck off if you tell me why you were were so bothered by the idea of me having a girlfriend.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’m angry because for one very brief, very idiotic second, I thought you weren’t a complete asshole, and of course I was wrong, and I hate being wrong.”

“Interesting,” he said, taking another step toward her. There was barely a foot between them now, and if he came any closer, she wouldn’t be able to avoid smelling his cologne. “Because for one very brief, very idiotic second, I thought you weren’t a complete brat. And I don’t think I was wrong.”

Carly stared at him. He watched her, studying her face while she scrambled for words. He was so close. She pressed her lips together and watched his eyes flick to her mouth and stay there. “But if you really think I’m an asshole, then you wouldn’t care about that. Right?”

“Right,” she said faintly, determined not to look away from him even though he was so close and so beautiful it almost hurt to meet his eyes. God, those eyes. In the dusk light the blue was almost gray, the lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Those eyes could see things in her face she didn’t want him to see. Things she didn’t want to be true. But they were. The knowledge that Nick wasn’t single had made her furious for reasons she hadn’t wanted to think about. But he’d known. He’d looked at her and he’d known. “Right, I don’t care about that,” she murmured, with a swallow.

“And you definitely wouldn’t care if I had a girlfriend. Isn’t that right, Carly?”

“Oh, shut up,” she sighed, and then she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled his mouth down to hers.

At first it was more collision than kiss. He stumbled forward in surprise, his nose squishing hers slightly, and his teeth glanced against her bottom lip gracelessly. But then he braced himself against the wall, a hand on either side of her body, and righted himself. Suddenly there was almost no air between their bodies at all. She was so aware of the smell of him, all spice and citrus, his mouth pavlova-sweet and reassuringly firm against hers. She felt his tongue slip past her lips, and as it met her own, a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, escaped from her throat.

The sound seemed to spur Nick on, because a second later, his large hand found the side of her neck and he pressed his hips against hers until Carly was deliciously trapped between the hard bricks and the solid wall of his chest. She had started this, but Nick was in charge now, holding her and kissing her insistently, like he wanted to prove a point. She answered by tilting her head and dipping her tongue deeper into his mouth, where it clashed with his as she arched her body against his chest. She felt him shudder as her breasts pressed against him, and looped her arms around his shoulders, desperate for more of his body against hers, more of his mouth, more of his scent.

Nick’s fingers slid up her neck and into her hair, while his other hand was splayed against her hip, keeping her body flush against his as she kissed him deeply, fiercely, unthinkingly. He pulled gently at her hair, and her body answered with a hot, needy pulse between her legs. He must have heard her whimper, because he did it again, and for a moment she wanted to scream because how dare he be so good at this? She vented her frustration by nipping at his lower lip and felt his fingers tighten around her hip. So she did it again, because she was damn good at this, too, thank you very much.

Someone laughed loudly inside, and Nick broke the kiss, chest heaving. Carly was panting. She looked up into his face and saw that his lips were swollen, and when she brought her fingertips to her own lips, they felt tender and a little puffy, too. It had been a long time since she’d been kissed like that. Had she ever been kissed like that? With so much need, but so much care? His eyes were trained on her fingers, and when she looked closer, she saw they were a little glassy, like he was dazed or drunk. Drunk on her. The sight of it made her feel a kind of whole-body hunger—and a ripple of self-satisfaction. She had done that. She had gotten this uptight, annoyed man drunk off her mouth. Broken vagina or not, she had done that.

Suddenly, her fingertips felt cold against her lips. She swallowed, trying to push away the truth that had just floated into her head, sweeping away the lust and the reckless need. Her broken vagina. It started like this every time: they wanted her, and she wanted them, and she wanted so badly to give them what they wanted. And she never could. And it hurt like a motherfucker. And it ended like that, every time. This time would be no different. The only thing that would change would be that she would end it before it could truly begin.

She dropped her hand and leaned back against the wall, putting half a foot of space between them. Nick carefully extracted his hand from her hair, and she missed it the moment it was gone. His other hand was still on her hip, radiating heat through the fabric of her dress. Just a few inches lower and he’d have his hand on her thigh, she realized, and the thought of his palms on her bare skin made her want to scream in frustration again. Shut it down, now.

“Let’s not make that mistake again,” she said, in as businesslike a tone as she could muster. It sounded unconvincing, but she meant it.

He frowned down at her for a moment, studying her face. He looked more alert now, and confused. “You kissed me,” he said slowly. He peeled his fingers off her hip even more slowly, and took a step backward.

“I did,” she nodded, hating the clipped sound of her own voice. “But I don’t want to do it again.” A lie. Her heart was still racing, and she could still taste sugar and strawberries.

She saw something shift in his gaze, a curtain falling.

“Okay, well, thanks for letting me know,” he said, matching her tone. “I should go back inside. I’ll send you the photos from this morning’s session so you can post them tonight.” His eyes were sharp again, and before she could say anything else, he was turning away from her and toward the front door. She watched him open it, wishing she could explain. But what would she even say? I’m broken? I can’t give you what you want, and you don’t want to give me what I need? It’s only a matter of time before we disappoint each other?

“Nick, wait,” she said, grabbing the door before it could swing shut behind him. He was already halfway down the hall.

“Goodnight, Carly,” he called over his shoulder. His voice was aggressively friendly, like he knew the others might hear him from the kitchen.

It was better this way, she told herself. This way, he’d remember that he actually hated her, and they’d go back to a prickly, barely functional partnership.

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” she called back, just as cheerfully, just as fake.

Because they still had to work together. She’d made a promise to Heather, and she would not break it. And she would not let one kiss stop her from doing what she needed to do to get promoted. One idiotic, ill-advised, knee-melting, never-to-be-repeated kiss.

“Fuck,” she sighed, closing the door and turning to slump against it. After a long moment, she walked down the front steps. This was a mess. She was a mess.

But at least this mess had a few hundred more followers than she’d had yesterday.